
! UNITED STATES OP AMERICA, f 






THE 



BROKEI BUD: 



OR, 



REMINISCENCES OF A BEREAVED MOTHER. 

— 



NEW YOEK:®^ 

ROBERT CARTER <fe BROTHERS, 
No. 285 BROADWAY. 



1851. 



& ^**~M%gt ^ /tc*p6*^ /fa 






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. > 



%~K ills' 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, 

BY ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS, 

In the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New York. 



STEREOTYPED BY THOMAS B. SMITH, 
216 WILLIAM STREET, N. Y. 






"I sometimes hold it half a sin 

To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like nature, half reveal 
And half conceal the soul, within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies ; 
The sad mechanic exercise, 

Like dull narcoties, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, 
Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; 
But that large grief which these infold 

Is given in outline and no more." 

Tennyson's " In Memoriam" 



This simple Tribute to the Memory of a beloved 
child, was prepared from the desire to preserve in manu- 
script form, for surviving children, a memorial of their 
departed sister. The relief, which, in its progress, was 
afforded by giving expression to feelings awakened by 
the bereavement, led to a more free utterance of the 
heart than was at first contemplated. 

At the suggestion of friends, the writer has been 
induced to make selections from the manuscript, and, 
with some changes and additions, to present them in 
this form ; not because it is assumed that there was 
anything peculiar in the life of the child, but simply 
in the hope of affording to other suffering hearts some 
slight consolation. Her deep interest in the experience 
of mothers, who have drank of this same bitter cup, 
and in the perusal of what on this subject has fallen 
in her way, is the ground of this hope. 

Little incidents are taken from the original narra- 
tive which may seem trivial to any but a mother. And 
the child's imperfect language is sometimes retained, 
as beinsr more natural. 



VI TO BEREAVED MOTHERS. 

Hints are casually thrown out with regard to the 
treatment of children, in the wish that they may prove 
of some little assistance to the young and inexperienced 
mother. 

Copious extracts are also made from the poetry 
collected in the memorial, as, from her own experience, 
the writer has learned its peculiar power of sympathy. 

In transferring from the manuscript such portions 
as lift the veil from her own heart, she has been in- 
fluenced by the earnest desire which, in her grief, she 
has felt, for a more full expression of the heart of 
others under such a bereavement. And for obvious 
reasons, these reminiscences and reflections do not cease 
with the afflictive event, but are continued through the 
changing seasons of the first year of grief. 

The preparation of this mournful Tribute has proved 
a sweet solace to the writer ; and if it shall be the 
means of soothing any wounded heart, or of leading 
it to the true source of consolation, it will abundantly 
reward 

A BEREAVED MOTHER. 



CONTENTS. 



MY BROKEN BUD. 



THE MOTHER S FLOWER, 
THE UNFOLDING BLOSSOM, 



HOLY BAPTISM, . 

THE MOTHER'S RECOLLECTIONS, 

THE MOTHER'S REFUGE, 

THE TRIBUTE, 

THE MOTHER'S FIRST VIGILS, 

THE HOME OF CHILDHOOD, 

FESTAL DAYS, 

THE LITTLE STRANGER, . 

THE NEW HOME, 

FILIAL OBEDIENCE, . 

A father's INTEREST, 

THE THIRD BIRTH-DAY, 

SELFISHNESS AND BENEVOLENCE, 

PERILS OF LIFE. PERSEVERANCEj 

THE SILVER CUP, 

SYMPATHY AND LOVE OF FLOWERS, 

THE VISIT, .... 

GUARDIAN ANGELS, . 

PREMONITIONS, 

THE LAST VISITS, . 



PAGE 

13 

20 

27 

33 

39 

46 

52 

55 

61 

66 

72 

78 

82 

88 

95 

103 

108 

112 

118 

124 

136 

142 



Viii CONTENTS. 






PAGE 


TRUTHFULNESS, . 




. 146 


PARTICULAR REMINISCENCES, 


• • • • 


. 150 


LAST DAYS OF HEALTH, 




. 158 


FIRST DAYS OF SICKNESS, 


• • • • 


164 


THE FADING BUD, 




. 170 


THE MOTHER'S LITANY, . 


• • • • 


. 174 


THE LAST GIFTS, 




. 181 


DAYS OF SUSPENSE, . 


. 


. 187 


ANXIOUS VIGILS, . 




. 193 


THE LAST DAY, 


• • • • 


. 198 


THE BUD BROKEN, 




. 203 


FIRST HOURS OF GRIEF, . 


• • • • 


. 209 


THE HOUR OF DARKNESS, 




. 216 


THE REMOVAL, 


• • • • 


. 222 


THE BURIAL, 




. 226 


RETURN FROM THE GRAVE, 


. 


. 230 


THE FIRST NIGHT, 




. 235 


THE DESOLATED HOME, 


• • 


. 241 


THE HOUR OF DOUBTING, 




. 250 


THE FLOWER LOST IN THE BUD, 


. 258 


THE GRAVE VISITED, . 




. 263 


TRIBUTES, 


. 


. 269 


RETURN OF SPRING, 




. 287 


THE CHANGING SEASONS, . 


• 


. 292 


IMAGE IN THE HEART, 




. 297 


IMPROVEMENT OF AFFLICTION, 


• 


. 307 


THE MOTHER WON, 


. 


. 315 


GRIEF'S DYING YEAR. 





%\ 38mfon font 

I had a precious gift from heaven; — 

Oh ! it was passing fair. 
It was a bud of promise sweet, 

Adorned with beauty rare. 
I gave it sunshine and the air ; — 

'Twas watered by the dew ; 
I watched it as each coming day 

Unfolded beauties new. 

Rich odors from its heart it breathed, 

Of most surpassing sweet. 
It was a bright, celestial bud, 

For our cold clime unmeet. 
There was a fragrance not of earth, 

Around my fairy blossom, 
And with a thrill of ecstasy, 

I placed it in my bosom. 



MY BROKEN BUD. 



Never was thing more dearly loved 

Than my fair, beauteous flower ; — 
And closer to my heart of hearts, 

I wore it every hour. 
The dream, the wild, sad dream of woe, 

Came never to my heart, 
That from my own sweet bud of bliss 

I might be called to part. 

One day, upon its tender stem 

It could not lift its head, — 
And, with a shudder through its heart 

Its petals bright were shed. 
Alas ! One had been near my flower 

With icy, shivering breath, 
Which chilled it to its very core ; — 

It was the blight of Death. 

Sadly we raised its drooping head, — 
We watered it with tears, — 

And night and day hung over it, 
With agony and fears. 



MY BROKEN BUD. XI 



We strove to stay the withering blight; — 
We strove, but strove in vain. 

No sunshine could revive it now, 
Nor dew, nor gentle rain. 

And yet we prayed, and yet we hoped, 

Still cheered by some slight token. 
One morn I found, — oh, agony ! — 

My cherished bud was broken. 
But could it be that all my hopes, — 

My dreams of bliss were fled ? — 
Oh could it — could it be, alas, 

My darling bud was dead? 

Sad, — sad the change that had passed o'er 

My blossom fair and bright ! 
They tore it from my bleeding heart, — 

They put it from my sight. 
And now my broken bud doth lie 

Upon the damp-earth sod, 
From the sweet sunlight all shut out — 

Wasting beneath the clod. 



Xll MY BROKEN BUD. 



But I shall see my bud again, 

'Mid fairest flowers of heaven. 
Oh! then in bright, celestial bloom, 

'Twill back to me be given. 
Then let me still my aching heart, 

And bless the friendly Hand, 
Which soon transplanted it from earth, 

Into the better land. 



THE BHOIEN BUD 



♦ » — 



€jjs 3&ntJ*r'H fhmx. 



a Hallowed forever be the hour 
To us, throughout all time to come, 
Which gave us thee, a living flower, 
To bless and beautify our home." 



What a tide of feeling rushes in upon a moth- 
er's heart when a new-born infant is laid in her 
arms. Gratitude, love, tenderness, solicitude, and 
a feeling as nearly allied to bliss as any merely 
human feeling can be, blend in one overpowering 
emotion. And yet the solicitude is so intense, as 
to cast flitting shadows over the bright sunshine 
of this hour. 

If ever a mother prays, will she not at such a 
time, entreat the Good Shepherd tenderly to 
guide her little lamb over the rough and thorny 
path of life, into the green pastures of the heav- 
enly fold ? And if it be her first-born which she 



14 THE BROKEN BUD. 

looks upon, what a thrill passes over her ! She 
feels herself a new being ; life wears a sunnier 
aspect. Amid smiles and tears, she lifts up her 
heart to Him, who, by entrusting her with the 
training of an immortal spirit, has not only open- 
ed a new fountain of feeling in her soul, but has 
laid upon her the deepest and most solemn re- 
sponsibility. As she looks upon her child, her 
heart responds to the beautiful sentiments ut- 
tered by one in the first experience of a mother's 
love. 

" Oh God ! thou hast a fountain stirred, 
Whose waters never more shall rest ! 

This beautiful, mysterious thing, 

This seeming visitant from heaven, — 

This bird, with the immortal wing, 
To me — to me — thy hand has given. 

# # # * * 

A silent awe is in my room, 

I tremble with delicious fear, 
The future, with its light and gloom, 

Time and eternity are here. 

Doubts — hopes, in eager tumult rise ; 

Hear, oh my God ! one earnest prayer, — 
Room for my bird in Paradise, 

And give her angel plumage there." 



THE MOTHER'S FLOWER. 15 

It was on a bright autumnal day, that my 
heart was gladdened by such a precious boon. 
But the sweet birdling which now folded 

" Her tiny wings upon my breast," 

was the second-born, yet for that none the less 
dear. In a letter written soon after her birth, 
her father says, — 

"I love her not exactly as I did my first-born, 
but not less. It was all new then and strange. 
The current of my paternal affection runs now 
more silently, but not less strongly or deeply. 
Kiss the little darling for her fond father." 

Many and sweet were my dreams of our baby- 
daughter, as growing up with her sister from 
sunny childhood, into girlhood and womanhood. 
I did not then realize, that these buds of promise 
were only committed to us to nurture, and that 
even before they should fully blossom, the heav- 
enly Gardener might transplant them to bloom 
in the Paradise above. My own I thought them, 
and I had yet bitterly to learn, that the only 
way rightly to enjoy our blessings, is in consid- 
ering them a trust. 

Our autumn-daughter, as we sometimes called 



16 THE BROKEN BUD. 

her in distinction from her sister, our " summer- 
child," was born in her grandfather's house, 
among the scenes of my own childhood and 
youth. She was a very quiet baby, and early 
won for her sweet self, a good name from all 
who knew her. Louise, our eldest daughter, 
was very happy at the sight of her baby-sister, 
admiring her little u pingers" and " peet," and 
childlike, putting her finger into her eye to see if 
it felt like dolly's. 

As one day after another passed away, our 
darling grew in beauty and loveliness, entwining 
herself more and more closely about our hearts. 
All the eras of her babyhood were kindly wel- 
comed, and joyfully celebrated, from the moth- 
er's never-exhausted treasury of kisses, and 
her never-failing vocabulary of tender epithets. 
Among these eras, none was dearer than the first 
smile. Most tenderly does a mother love her 
helpless, clinging infant, but when it first looks 
upon her with a sweet, full, intelligent smile, — 
that is a moment of rapture. An understanding 
is now established between them. Companion- 
ship begins, her lonely hours are over, and that 
first smile is treasured up among the memories 



THE MOJHER/S FLOWER. 17 

of the heart. And when that winning smile 
breaks out into joyous, dimpled laughter, what a 
thrill of pleasure does it bring with it ! 

" Harmonies from time-touched towers, 
Haunted strains from rivulets, 
Hum of bees among the flowers, 
Rustling leaves and silver showers, 
These, ere long, the ear forgets. 
But in mine there is a sound, 
Ringing on the whole year round, 
Heart-deep laughter that I heard, 
Ere my child could speak a word. 
Hers — the mother — the endurer 
Of the deepest share of pain, — 
Hers the deepest bliss, to treasure 
Memories of that cry of pleasure ; 
Hers to hoard a life-time after, 
Echoes of that infant laughter. 
Childhood's honied tones untaught, 
Hiveth she in loving thought ; — 
Tones that never thence depart, 
For she listens with her heart." 

Then came on another era, when our robin 

began to look earnestly at her own tiny fingers, 

as if counting them. She was most intent upon 

her business, but did not seem to arrive at any 

2 



18 THE BROKEN BUD. 

satisfactory result. Days and weeks she con- 
tinued to count on, but at length she turned to 
the study of her toes, leaving the problem of her 
fingers unsolved. How delighted was she when 
she first succeeded, with mother's help, in get- 
ting them into her mouth. So she kept on in- 
creasing her stock of baby accomplishments, and 
we kept on loving her more and more every day 
of her little life. 

Her dear grandmother also loved her tender- 
ly, and notwithstanding her own infirm health, 
frequently desired her company. And so quiet 
and gentle a baby was she, that we did not fear 
its wearying her. Often would I place her for a 
moment in her grandmama's lap, and smile at 
the contrast : — a feeble, yet serene and trusting 
old age ; and smiling, bounding, joyous infancy. 
What a beautiful picture ; — the grandmother, 
with her silvery hair under her plain white cap, 
parted simply on her forehead, traced over in- 
deed with lines of care and sickness and grief, 
yet still placid ; her dimmed eye looking kindly 
through her glasses upon her child's child, which 
with one hand, she fondly presses to her still 
youthful heart, while with the other, she holds 



THE MOTHER'S FLOWER. 19 

something with which to amuse it : — and in 
contrast, that little one, her dark earnest eye 
looking confidingly into her grandmother's smil- 
ing face, with one dimpled hand clasping her 
finger, while, with an arch expression, the other 
is softly stretched out to pull off the shining spec- 
tacles. Ah ! — those we knew must be among 
our mother's last days ; but little did we think 
that the tender nursling in her arms would so 
soon lie down in dreamless slumber by her side. 



" Jewel most precious thy mother to deck, 
Clinging so fast by the chain on my neck, 
Locking thy little white fingers to hold 
Closer and closer the circlets of gold, — 
Stronger than these are the links that confine 
Near my fond bosom, this treasure of mine ! 
Gift from thy Maker, so pure and so dear, 
Almost I hold thee with trembling and fear. 

* * * * % Hs 

Brilliant celestial ! so priceless in worth, 
How shall I keep thee unspotted from earth ? 
How shall I save thee from ruin by crime, 
Dimmed not by sorrow, untarnished by time ? 
Where from the thief and the robber that stray 
Over life's path, shall I hide thee away '? 
Fair is the setting, but richer the gem, 
Oh ! thou'lt be coveted, — sought for by them ! 

I must devote thee to One who is pure, 

Touched by whose brightness, thine own will be sure. 



THE UNFOLDING BLOSSOM. 21 

Borne in his bosom, no vapor can dim, — 
Nothing can win, or can pluck thee from him. 
Seamless and holy the garments he folds 
Over his jewels, that closely he holds. 
Hence, unto Him be my little one given ! 
Yea, for ' of such is the kingdom of Heaven.' " 

H. F. Gould. 

The wintry months passed quietly away, 
cheered by pleasant faces, and kindly greetings. 
At the close of the season, several of the family 
were attracted to the dear homestead, to cele- 
brate, as it proved for the last time, our mother's 
birth-day. From a letter sent to our absent 
daughter, describing this celebration, the follow- 
ing is an extract : 

" But I have not told you the very prettiest 
among all the pretty things. Can you guess 
what it was ? It was your own darling sister. 
And very sweetly did she behave herself on the 
occasion, trying to talk in her little gooings. 
And what she could not quite say in this way, 
she finished saying with her loving eyes. She 
sat in her grandma's lap a moment, and received 
the praises of all for being so good a baby. And 
this was her letter : 



22 THE BROKEN BUD. 

" My dear (xrandmama, 

" Mother says I may put a letter into your 
pretty box. Goo, goo. Do you understand my 
baby-talk ? Groo means, dear grandma, I love 
you. And when I crow loud, I am trying to 
tell you that my little heart is full of love. It 
makes me feel very happy to hear you say so 
kindly, ' pretty baby, pretty baby,' and to see you 
snap your fingers. 

" I love to talk with dear grandpa. "When he 
takes me in his lap I tell him all my little feel- 
ings, goo, goo, and it makes him smile very 
pleasantly. And then he sings " The pretty, pretty 
lark." Mama says I shall give you a sugar plum. 
But what is a sugar plum? She says I shall 
know fast enough by-and-by. 

"Your littlest granddaughter." 

The warm spring days had come, and with 
them peeped out bright green leaves from every 
tree and shrub, while sweet flowers of blue and 
white began to show their pretty heads all over 
the fields and meadows. But the sweetest flower 
of all was our darling rose-bud, now fast unfold- 
ing, and which gladdened us, not only by its 



THE UNFOLDING BLOSSOM. 23 

present beauty, but by the rich promise it gave 
for its season of bloom. 

And among all the bright birds that from joy- 
ous little throats sent forth their glad, soul-full 
warblings, none were so bright as my autumn- 
bird, and none made sweeter music. For although 
these little songsters, in their rich, full notes, 
excel trained choirs, yet they cannot equal the 
melody of an infant's voice, as it falls upon the 
mother's heart, filling her eye with unbidden 
tears. 

With the Spring, our prattling daughter re- 
turned, and there soon sprung up a sweet attach- 
ment between her and her baby-sister. And 
great was my enjoyment in the present, as well 
as bright my anticipations for the future. Yet 
what mother does not sometimes try to conceive 
of her grief, were she called to lay a dear child 
in the grave ? And what mother, in imagining 
such a sorrow, does not feel that she could never 
endure it? The promise is, " As thy day, so 
shall thy strength be." But we cannot expect 
the peculiar " strength," until the trial comes, in 
which we may need it. 

How wisely has our heavenly Father con- 



24 THE BROKEN BUD. 

stituted the relations of life ! How kindly is it 
ordered that infancy, from its very helplessness, 
should awaken all a parent's tenderness ! Indeed, 
there is about it a dependence, — a trustingness, 
which appeals to every heart. And the love thus 
easily won, is, by its various little endearments, 
as easily preserved. "What can surpass the con- 
fiding spirit with which a babe clings instinct- 
ively to its mother ? What can equal the un- 
taught, inimitable grace of its every look and 
gesture ? What can be compared with its artless- 
ness, which leaves every emotion to appear upon 
its open countenance ? How fearless is it in its 
actions ! — how free in the expression of its likes 
and dislikes ! How commanding is its de- 
meanor ! — how appealing its helplessness ! And 
how irresistible is this appeal ! How touchingly 
it says, " love me, take care of me, or I shall 
fade Tmd die." And fondly does the mother's 
heart reply, I will love thee, my precious one. 
I will wear thee in my bosom. Thou shalt have 
the sunshine and the dew. But with all a 
mother's watchfulness, the canker or the mildew 
may touch thee, the summer's heat may blight 
thee, the blasting wind may chill thee, the piti- 



THE UNFOLDING BLOSSOM. 25 

less storm may bow thy head, and sooner or 
later, the frost of death will lay thee low. Gladly 
would I wrap thee in the folds of my heart, and 
shield thee from all harm. But it may not be. 
Earth's sweetest flowers must be exposed to all 
the changes and chances of her ungenial clime. 
And never canst thou be fully unfolded, or 
certainly secured from withering blight and blast- 
ing frost, till transplanted to the better land. 
But how heavily will it press at times upon a 
Christian mother's heart, that under God, it 
depends much, very much upon her nurturing 
care, whether this tender floweret shoot up in 
rankness, to be at last cast away — a worthless 
weed ; or whether it unfolds and expands in 
beauty, till fitted for the celestial garden. How 
intense will be her solicitude, how unceasing her 
watchfulness, and above all, how earnest, how 
importuning will be her prayer, that no evil 
thing may blight her precious bud ! To the 
heavenly Gardener, will she continually commit 
her treasure. With Him, will she tearfully in- 
tercede for his refreshing dews, and for the sun- 
shine of his grace. And cheering are his words 
to the faithful mother. " I will pour my Messing 



26 THE BROKEN BUD. 



upon thine offspring. And they shall spring up 
as among the grass, — as willows by the water- 



courses." 



As blossoming May gave place to blooming 
June, we left my childhood's home, — we bade 
farewell to the sunny fields sprinkled all over 
with starry flowers, — to the dear, familiar grove, — 
to rooms, hallowed by memories both joyous and 
sad, — of births, of bridals and of deaths ; — we bade 
farewell to all these scenes, for a home among a 
strange people. With full hearts and tearful 
eyes, we exchanged the parting salutations, and 
when we and our little ones had received the 
fatherly benediction, we went our way. 

It was our infant's introduction to the world, 
for never before had she been from under her 
grandfather's roof. And soon we found ourselves 
established in our new home, with new faces to 
look upon, new friendships to be made, and new 
duties to be performed. 



inlt{ baptism* 



" Where is it mothers learn their love ? 
In every church a fountain springs, 
O'er which the eternal Dove 
Hovers on softest wings. 

% * * * 

Oh, happy arms, where cradled lies, 
And ready for the Lord's embrace, 

That precious sacrifice, 
The darling of his grace ! 

Blest eyes, that see the smiling gleam 
Upon the slumbering features glow, 

When the life-giving stream 
Touches the tender brow ! 

But happiest ye who sealed and blest 

Back to your arms your darling take, 

With Jesus' mark impressed, 

To nurse for Jesus' sake. 

* * * * 



By whom Love's daily touch is seen 

In strengthening form and freshening hue, 

In the fixed brow serene, 

The deep, yet eager view. 
# * * % 

Oh, tender gem ! and full of heaven ! 

Isot in the twilight stars on high, 
Not in moist flowers at even, 

See we our God so high. 

Sweet one, make haste and know him too, 

Thine own adopting Father love, 
That like thine earliest dew, 

Thy dying sweets may prove." 

Keble. 

How impressive is the baptism of an infant ! 
To parents, no rite can be more affecting. Their 
little lamb belongs to the flock which has broken 
from the fold, and is perishing in the wilderness. 
If through infinite love, the parents have been 
led to return, they cannot leave their little one a 
wanderer. They bring it with them to the tem- 
ple of the Lord, and lay it at the feet of the 
Grood Shepherd, beseeching him to take it in his 
arms, and to restore it to his fold. By asking 
for it the rite of Baptism, they acknowledge 



HOLY BAPTISM. 29 



that it needs the cleansing of blood, — the bap- 
tism of the Spirit, of which that by water is 
typical. And by the affixing of this precious 
seal of the covenant, its blessings are secured to 
their child, on condition of their faithful per- 
formance of the duties of the covenant. By 
this ordinance, the parents give up their little 
one to Grod, entreating that it may be renewed 
by his Spirit, and thus by becoming a child of 
grace, become also an heir of glory. And hav- 
ing received the Saviour's mark, it is given back 
for the second time, to be trained for the service 
of the cross. 

What parents thus understanding this ordi- 
nance, can neglect it ? And what mother can 
hesitate to secure the rich blessings of this cove- 
nant to her children, even if, in the providence 
of God, she must come with them alone ? Does 
she feel her unworthiness ? Jesus, who is in- 
finitely worthy, thus becomes her surety. Does 
she fear her inconsistency ? The same Jesus, 
through this ordinance, says to her distrusting 
heart, " My grace is sufficient for thee." What 
a privilege for a solicitous mother, to have her 
children taken into the earthly fold, to be 



30 THE BROKEN BUD. 



watched over and prayed for by God's people, 
and more than all, to be looked upon and cared 
for by the Good Shepherd ! 

The baptism of our little daughter had been 
deferred till we were in our own home. But 
now, on " a day most calm, most bright," we 
took her with us to the sanctuary. 

The solemnity of the rite itself deeply affected 
us. Then, our child was to bear the name of 
one, who not a year before, had cheerfully bade 
farewell to a cherished circle of friends, and, 
sustained by an unfaltering trust in her Re- 
deemer, had gone up to glory. After supplica- 
tion had been made to Him, who when on 
earth, gave to little children his peculiar bless- 
ing, I laid our darling in her father's arms. 
With deep emotion were pronounced the words, 
I baptize thee in the name of 



a 



the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
Ghost. Amen." What thoughts rush upon a 
mother in such a moment ! As she looks upon 
the tender nursling, " with Jesus' mark im- 
pressed," now returned to her " to nurse for 
Jesus' sake," — as she reflects, that in the most 
impressive manner, it has been consecrated to 



HOLY BAPTISM. 31 



God, and that while on his part, He has pledg- 
ed the rich blessings of the covenant, she has 
bound herself most sacredly to the fulfilment of 
its vows, — will she not lift up her heart to Him, 
whose promises are both sure and sufficient ? 
"Will she not importune the blessed Saviour for 
heavenly wisdom safely to guide her little pil- 
grim over life's thorny road, up to the gates of 
the celestial city ? 

May not angelic friends be lingering near 
us at such an hour ? At this hallowed season, 
I almost felt her presence, whose name our 
darling bore. Departed spirit ! loved one, who, 
in the full bloom of youthful beauty, left 
earth's cold clime, for the better land, — thy 
memory shall ever be cherished in our hearts ! 
And thou too, dear child ! thou darling of our 
love, — upon whom rested our sweetest hopes, — 
in whom were garnered up our dearest joys, — 
art thou, too, gone from us forever ? How con- 
soling to reflect upon the hour, when thou wert 
consecrated to the God of the covenant ! — How 
precious the assurance, that through the rich 
grace of that covenant, thou art now borne on 
the bosom of the Good Shepherd above ! 



32 THE BROKEN BUD. 



" Though my soul's hope hung on thy breath, 
Thou to so bright a world art gone, 
I would not wake thee, sweet, from death ; — 
Though loved in life, — sleep on, — sleep on." 



€Jr* 3Kntjin'a Jknzlinlhut. 

" The eye, the lip, the cheek, the brow, 
The hands, stretched forth in gladness, 

All life, joy, rapture, beauty now ; 
Then dashed by infant sadness ; 

Till brightening by transition 

Returned the fairy vision : — 

Where are they now ? — those smiles, those tears,— 

Thy mother's darling treasure ? 
She sees them still, and still she hears 

Thy tones of pain or pleasure, 
To her quick pulse revealing 
Unutterable feeling."" Montgomery. 

Little Carrie could now sit alone, and had 
learned to stretch out her hands to her father 
and mother and sister, besides being able to do a 
great many other things in the baby line. But 
she knew not where she was born, or where she 
lived, or how old she was ; — she knew not even 

3 



o 



4 THE BROKEN BUD, 



the true use of her hands and feet. And yet to 
look upon her expansive brow, no one could feel 
that she was without thought. Nay, is not an 
infant's mind full of activity ? Is there any 
period of life in which knowledge is acquired so 
fast, — in which the faculties are developed so 
rapidly ? "What an interesting study would be 
the mind and heart of an innocent babe ! Were 
some fortunate mother to possess the power of 
looking within the small body, so full of myste- 
ries, into the still greater mysteries of its anima- 
ting spirit, how would all philosophers reverently 
approach her shrine, and listen to the revelations 
of a wiser than Delphic oracle ! But although 
there is scarcely anything in the reach of man, 
from the farthest star within his ken, to the 
tiniest flower under his feet, which he may not 
analyze, or examine, or look upon, yet here is one 
thing, which, though cradled in his arms, always 
eludes his grasp. Though his eye, skilled in read- 
ing nature's many volumes, rests searchingly 
upon it, yet it forever escapes his scrutiny. An 
infant's mind is, and must remain a sealed book. 
And those many questions, which could be settled 
at once by perusing this book, and which, for 



THE MOTHER'S RECOLLECTIONS. 35 

want of such access, have been for ages the 
theme of philosophers, will doubtless continue to 
be discussed, and to remain unsettled to the end 
of time. 

And yet how legibly are thought and feeling 
written upon the face of an infant ! And how 
richly every day of its life, is the mother repaid 
for all her vigils and care, by the sweet endear- 
ments and rapid developments of her winsome 
child ! If the little one is indebted to her every 
hour and moment of the day, there is scarcely an 
hour or a moment when it does not render back 
a full reward. And what delight does every new 
era bring with it ! Many a glad holiday comes 
to a mother's heart. Our robin had passed that 
one, " when first the white blossoms of the teeth 
appear, breaking the crimson buds that did en- 
case them." And she could now show more 
than one tiny pearl, between her ruby lips. 

The summer was passing away, but our bird 
made it one perpetual summer in our hearts. 

What a book of beauty and poetry, is the 
whole life of an infant ! There is poetry in its 
slumbers, with the rose-cheek sweetly pillowed 
on the dimpled hand. There is poetry in its 



36 THE BROKEN BUD. 



wakings, when a loving eye shines out suddenly 
from beneath its curtaining lid, — its light softened 
by the long silken fringe, while the little arms 
are stretched out confidingly to its mother. There 
is poetry too, for there is grace and beauty in its 
every look, and motion, and gesture. And its 
voice, even before articulation, how full of music 
and poetry ! It has a speech of its own, and a 
sweet speech it is, and it is uttered with a 
melody, which brings smiles into a mother's 
heart, though tears into her eye. 

It was about this time that Carrie began to 
creep, and this was another era. And soon came 
on her father's birth-day, when the round table 
was spread with the children's toys, and flowers, 
and sugar plums, and birth-day epistles. All 
being ready, Louise carried the invitation, " Papa, 
will you walk out to your birth-day ?" 

Among the letters, was one inscribed, 

" To my papa, from his baby." 

" I would like to write a tiny letter to my 
papa, to help keep his birth-day. But I shall 
have to get mama to hold my hand, because I am 
only a baby. Mama says she thinks you will be 
happier this birth-day than ever before, because 



THE MOTHER'S RECOLLECTIONS. 37 

you never had a dear little Carrie to kiss you all 
the other birth-days of your life. I am glad of 
this, for I love to make my papa happy. And it 
makes me happy to have you think so much of 
such a baby as I am. I wish I could tell you 
some of the thoughts that come into my heart, 
when you speak kindly to me. And now this 
minute, your smiling upon me makes me so 
glad, that I have to jump and crow to express 
my joy. And that jogs mama, so that she can't 
make a straight line. And so perhaps, I had 
better end my little letter. 

" Your dear Carrie." 

Now came on still another era, when our 
creeping baby began to walk alone. And what 
a constant delight it was to see her tottle along, 
her eyes shining with joy at every new step she 
took 

During the autumn, she went with me for a 
day or two to her grandfather's. Her dear grand- 
mother seemed feeble, for the silver cord was 
loosening, and the grasshopper had become a bur- 
den. Yet she still looked upon the child with 
the same kind smile, and for one brief moment, 



38 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



held her in her lap. But the time for our depar- 
ture came, and once more the parting kiss was 
exchanged. It was for us her last kiss. My 
sweet Carrie never saw her grandmother more, 
till she followed her over the dark river, and was 
welcomed by her to 

" That peaceful shore, 
Which time's tempestuous waves shall dash no more." 

And what a meeting must that have been ! No 
longer infirm and suffering, but clothed in im- 
mortal vigor, how would she clasp her cherub 
grand-child in her arms, rejoicing that she was 
safely through the wilderness, — safe over the 
dark river, — safe forever in the haven of rest ! 



" Little children ! — budding flowers, 

Pure and fresh with morning dews, 
Hiding in your leafy bowers, 

Glancing out with sunny hues. 
Fresh young flowrets, peeping up, 

To deck life's thorny way, 
With folded leaf and rosy cup, 

To bless you day by day. 

Little children ! bright young cherubs, 
Bending from their homes above, 

Sweet companions, lovely teachers, 
Winning by their trusting love ! 

Heed their messages from Heaven, 
Lisped in accents soft and mild, 

With loving smile, and guardian care, 

Cherish each little child." 

Lillie Ambrose. 

Soon after our return we had the dearest of 
all the mother's holidays, when our Carrie be- 



40 THE BROKEN BUD. 



gan to lisp the name of papa and mama. A 
mother never wearies of her infant's prattle, — 
her ear never tires of the melody of its lisping 
words. But the infantile manner with which its 
little sayings are uttered, and which constitutes 
their inimitable charm, can no more be de- 
scribed, than its impression can be effaced. 

"We had in our family, a large black rag 
baby, one year younger than Louise, which had 
long been her pet, and had now become a favor- 
ite with her sister. Many were the tender epi- 
thets and caresses which she lavished upon it. 
She fed it from her own cup, and seemed as- 
sured that the poor baby's appetite was satisfied, 
although she herself had eaten every mouthful. 
It was a pretty picture, — the dear child asleep, 
with her white dimpled arm twined affection- 
ately around her baby's neck, — her rosy cheek 
presenting so sweet a contrast to its black face. 

Soon came on Carrie's birth-day, then 
Thanksgiving day, and to these succeeded 
Christmas and New Year's days. All the kind 
salutations of these days, the children entered 
into with great cordiality. And bright were their 
eyes at the revelations of the wonder-holding 



THE MOTHER'S REFUGE. 41 

stockings of Christmas, — the shining gilt rattle, 
filled with sugar-plums, the pretty boxes of 
sweet things, and all the bright et ceteras. 

Life was full of enjoyment to our dear child. 
She delighted to ride in her little wagon, — she 
delighted to go up into the attic, and have full 
space and liberty to run. If she fell down, she 
would quickly jump up, and running to have the 
hurt-place kissed, would think herself all well 
again. When it became too cold for her little 
feet to venture out of doors, she would stand 
contentedly at the window by the hour, watch- 
ing her sister at her plays. 

It is an easy thing to make an infant heart 
happy, and perhaps on this very account, we 
are sometimes too careless in securing this hap- 
piness. But it is not till the bright head lies 
low, that a mother knows the full bitterness of 
regret for any act of thoughtlessness or neglect 
to the dear departed one. It may be her error 
was slight, but when she thinks of that gentle 
form mouldering in the dust, and feels that she 
cannot even whisper, " forgive me, my child," 
then the harsh word, — the hasty act, — seems to 
her sorrowing heart the most unpardonable self- 



42 THE BROKEN BUD. 



ishness, which she would give worlds to recall. 
Oh then, as she would be free from self-re- 
proach, let the fond mother, while teaching self- 
government to her child, also be careful to govern 
her own spirit ! Let her not punish it from 
anger, when she would not punish it at all, were 
she not angry ! Let her not punish it in anger, 
for that which may be really deserving of pun- 
ishment, for so doing, she not only harms her 
child, but injures herself. And yet how very 
hard it is for a mother, with a young family 
around her, uniformly to rule her own spirit ! 
She may have various petty vexations, or serious 
trials ; sometimes from much help, sometimes 
from poor help, and sometimes from no help. 
Her basket may be full of work, her house full 
of company, and consequently, her hands may 
be full of labors, and her head full of cares. 
Her health too may be feeble, so that with an 
aching head and a heavy heart, she may go 
about hardly knowing which way to tarn. Her 
case is trying, it may be, bitterly trying, but 
there is a place whither she can flee for refuge 
from all these trials — from her own vexed spirit. 
" Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall 



THE MOTHER'S REFUGE. 43 

sustain thee.*' Let her pour out all her heart in 
her heavenly Father's ear ; let her humbly con- 
fess wherein she has yielded to temptation, and 
thus sinned against him ; let her earnestly sup- 
plicate forgiveness, and wisdom, and strength, — 
so shall she go forth, not only pardoned and 
soothed, but under a strengthening and elevating 
influence, which shall preserve her spirit calm, 
and her brow unruffled. And if she again errs, 
let her again seek forgiveness and strength, until 
the victory over self is obtained. It is doubtless 
the case, that many a feeble, care-worn mother 
passes much of her time in discouragement and 
self-reproach, from having allowed herself in 
open complaints, or w^hat may be no less sinful, 
— in secret murmurings at the little discomforts 
and perplexities of her situation, when, had 
God's hand been laid heavily upon her, her 
heart would have meekly breathed its submis- 
sive " Thy will be done." And this, because in 
great afflictions, she tells her griefs to Grod, and 
wrestles with him for sustaining grace ; while 
her petty cares and vexations, she attempts to 
meet in her own strength, feeling that they are 
too small to be told to God. It should not thus 



44 THE BROKEN BUD. 






be, when under every possible circumstance of 
trial, the refuge of prayer is open to her. For 
her children's sake, let her ever seek this refuge, 
that their sunny faces be not clouded, nor their 
innocent joys marred by her indulgence in wrong 
feelings. For her own sake, let her seek it, that 
she may be enabled to obtain the ornament of a 
meek and quiet spirit, and that should she be 
called to weep over the early graves of those she 
loves, her heart may not bleed with the incur- 
able wound of having wronged the dead. And 
let her remember, that her own example to her 
children, is living and constant, and far exceeds 
in its influence on the formation of their char- 
acters all dry preceptive rules, unaccompanied 
by such examples. 

" Mother, revere God's image in thy child ! 

No earthly gift thy parent-arms enfold ; 

No mortal tongue as yet the worth hath told 
Of that which in thy bosom, meek and mild, 
Rests its weak head. Oh, not by sense beguiled, 

Gaze on that form of perishable earthly mould ; 
Though first by thee it lived, on thee it smiled, 

Yet not for thee existence must it hold. 



THE MOTHER'S REFUGE. 45 

For God's it is, not thine. Thou art but one 

To whom that happy destiny is given, 
To see an everlasting life begun, 

To watch the dawnings of the future heaven, 
And to be such in purity and love, 
As best may win it to that life above? 1 

Emily Taylor. 



€\i €i\Mt. 



" The dead ! 
The only beautiful, who change no more. 

The dead! Whom call we so 1 
They that breathe purer air — that feel, that know 
Things wrapt from us." 

Mrs. Hema.ns. 



The month in which my mother's birth-day 
was wont to be celebrated, had again come 
round. But instead of assembling for that pur- 
pose, we were, during this same month, called 
together by the tidings of her death. 

Silent we reached our mourning home, home of my 

early years, 
Welcomed alas ! by bursts of grief, and often gushing 

tears, — 
A home, hallowed by memory's golden chain of tender 

thought 
Around a mother's death-bed, by love and sorrow wrought. 



THE TRIBUTE. 47 



Once more we stood beside her. How strange a meeting 

this! 
Where was the hand of welcoming, the greeting voice, 

the kiss ? 
Within her coffin now she lay, in silence long and deep, 
Forever closed her loving eyes, in Death's last, dreamless 

sleep. 

Effaced from her meek brow all lines of sickness, grief and 

care, 
And placid as a sleeping child, she lay in beauty there ; 
While round her lips on which had dwelt the holy law of 

love, 
Lingered a sweet celestial smile, type of the # peace above. 

Our mother dear, though changes come, and time swift 

onward rolls, 
Yet thou shalt live, unchanging still, enshrined within our 

souls. 
When tempted, and when sorely tried, our spirits then 

will turn 
To thy meek virtues, all embalmed in memory's priceless 

urn. 

Thy single-hearted guilelessness, thy spirit's cheerful flow, 
Thy sweet unselfishness of soul, so rarely seen below, 
Thy sympathy and charity, linked ever hand in hand, 
Thy meekness and humility, lengthening the golden band, 



48 THE BROKEN BUD. 

Thy true love for the beautiful, thy playfulness so free, 
Thy tenderness of heart and mien, thy sweet simplicity, 
The candor of thy spirit, extracting slander's gall, 
" Oh, many have been virtuous, but thou excelledst them 
all."* 

And yet the richest jewel, mid these gems serenely 

bright, 
Was thy childlike trust unwavering, in all God's ways as 

right. 
This character we treasure up, our heritage from thee, 
Still cherished in our heart of hearts, our mother's 

legacy. 

Our darling child, we did not take to look upon the dead, 
For how should her young spirit know the loving soul 

had fled, 
Why those dear lips no answer made to love's most 

earnest call, 
Or why she in the coffin lay, clothed with the sable pall ? 

Alas ! but little did we think as the bier we followed slow, 
That our own blooming, treasured one would be the next 
to go. 

* Prov. xxxi. 29, — which we were wont to call our mother's 
verse, as her birth-day occurred on the 29th of the month. 



THE TRIBUTE. 49 



Our loving hearts ne'er had a dream that our sweet child 

could die, 
And mouldering underneath the clods, in her young 

beauty lie. 

But towards the grave we bore our dead, in silence and 
in sorrow, 

Undreaming in our present grief, the tempests of to- 
morrow. 

And nearer as w r e reached our goal, the higher swelled 
griefs surge, 

The while our hearts were chanting low our mother's 
funeral dirge. 

Slowly, bearers, slowly, slowly,. 

For a precious one ye bear, 
One whose image meek and lowly, 

Shrined w T ithin our hearts we wear. 

In her coffin lone she lieth, 

As we onward sadly pass, 
While the mournful wind low sigheth 

" Thus man fadeth like the grass." 

Lightly, bearers, lightly treading, 

Near ye now her place of rest. 

Joy's bright flowers their leaves are shedding 

On our mother's icy breast. 
4 



50 THE BROKEN BUD. 

Gently, gently, ye are pressing 
Closely to her children's side. 

Soon their silent home possessing 
She in sleep will there abide. 

Softly now, oh softly raise it, 

Poising o'er the dark grave's brink, 

On the earth's cold bosom place it, 
Slowly, slowly, let it sink. 

Rest thee, mother, worn and weary, 
Rest thee in thy bed so deep, 

Though to us 'tis lone and dreary, 
Yet 'twill give thee sweetest sleep. 

Long thy faltering steps have tended 
To the silent, shadowy tomb. 

Now thy pilgrimage is ended, 

Now spreads o'er us night's deep gloom, 

Yet oh ! mother, sweetly slumber 
Deep within thy earth-made bed. 

Years shall roll on without number, 
Still shall rest thy weary head. 

Now doth end our mournful chanting, 
Though the bruised heart still weep, 

Now sweet flowers is memory planting 
Fresh within our hearts to keep. 



THE TRIBUTE. 51 



Mother ! fast our tears are streaming, 
As we breathe our last farewell. 

Yet there's light above us beaming, 
Farewell mother ! then farewell ! 



<% BUtJju'a' fint gtfgtli. 



" To mark the sufferings of the babe 

That cannot speak its woe, 
To see the infant tears gush forth, 

Yet know not why they flow, 
To meet the meek, uplifted eye, 

That fain would ask relief, 
Yet can but tell of agony — 

This is a mother's grief." T. Dale. 



In returning from the tomb, what a quickened 
sense do we have of our common mortality ! 
After looking down into the grave, with what an 
intensity of feeling will a mother clasp her 
children to her heart, as if she could thus shield 
them from the blight of death ! But it may not 
be. The most clinging affection cannot pur- 
chase for her exemption from the liability of be- 
ing called at any time, to bear them away to the 
tomb. 

It was not many weeks after our return, that 
a change passed over our dear child, which made 
us feel for the moment, the insecurity of our 



THE MOTHER'S FIRST VIGILS. 53 

possession. In the midst of her plays, she was 
taken suddenly and dangerously ill. As she lay 
in our arms, she looked so sick — so deadly pale, 
that our hearts sank within us. 

Sickness and suffering in any form, it is pain- 
ful to behold. But there is something inexpres- 
sibly touching in the sufferings of a young child. 
And if that child be your own, who but a mother 
that has had like experience, can conceive of 
your emotions ? Willingly, joyfully would you 
yourself bear every pain, nay you do bear it, 
and yet the child must bear it too. You can 
suffer with it, but not in its stead. How wist- 
fully it looks around to see if any relief is nigh ! 
"What an appeal it makes to its mother's heart ! 

Thus imploringly did Carrie's eye fall upon us ! 
It seemed to express wonder that we should let 
her suffer so. Dear child ! she was one of the 
fallen race, and shared in the common inheri- 
tance of suffering and sorrow. 

From this sickness, Grod was pleased speedily 
to raise up our darling, so that in a few days she 
was again the light of our home. 

Spring had once more come and gone, and the 
summer months were passing rapidly away. 



54 THE BROKEN BUD. 

And our graceful, bounding little one, her face 
all sunshine, her voice all music, and her soul 
all love, was every day stealing her way more 
and more into the very core of our hearts. If 
for a moment, a tear of sorrow dimmed her eye, 
before it could fall, it brightened into a tear of 
joy. A cloud on her sweet face, was the merest 
passing shadow, which only added radiance to 
the after sunshine. 

" The tear down childhood's cheek that flows, 
Is like the dew-drop on the rose ; 
When the next summer breeze comes by, 
And waves the bush, the flower is dry." 



" The shadow of departed hours 
Hangs dim upon thine early flowers ; 
Even in thy sunshine seems to brood 
Something more deep than solitude. 
* * * * * 

Alas ! for all about thee spread, 
I feel the memory of the dead, 
And almost linger for the feet 
That never more my step shall meet. 

The looks, the smiles all vanished now, 
Follow me where thy roses blow ; 
The echoes of kind, household words 
Are with me midst thy singing birds. 

Till my heart dies, — it dies away 
In yearnings for what might not stay, 
For love, which ne'er deceived my trust, 
For all which went with, ' dust to dust.' 



56 THE BROKEN BUD. 



We miss them when the board is spread, 
We miss them when the prayer is said ; 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes, 
In still and mournful fondness rise. 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain ; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above." 

Mrs. Hemans. 

During the latter part of tlie summer, we 
made our usual visit to my early home. The 
departure of our dear mother, — the sweet, ani- 
mating spirit of that home, brought more vividly 
to mind the changes which had gradually been 
passing over it. The places were the same, and 
the objects familiar, but where were those who 
had looked on them with me ? There was the 
pleasant grove, but loved ones who had walked 
there, lay low in the dust. Each side of the 
garden-gate stood the willows bending gracefully, 
with their foliage still fresh and green, but dear 
eyes which had so delighted to rest upon them, 
were closed forever. In the west still glowed 
the golden sunsets, but hearts which on behold- 



THE HOME OF CHILDHOOD. 57 

ing them had kindled into rapture, had ceased 
to beat. Beneath the windows and along the 
walks, fragrant roses were still blooming, but the 
loved brother's hand that planted them, had long 
mouldered in the grave, — the sweet sister, who 
had worn in her bosom, blossoms from the 
same bush, — lovelier and frailer than they, had 
faded and gone. And infant eyes that had shone 
with joy to look upon the bright flowers were 
closed forever. Yes, often had the bier borne 
our dead across the shady walks to the silent 
grave. 

But while we were saddened in reviewing these 
changes of the past, we rejoiced that no golden 
link was wanting in our household band, and 
our hearts rested in the hope that our home 
would not be invaded. Vain dream to cherish 
in a world where death casts his shadow before 
every door, — where sooner or later, he lays his 
icy hand upon every dear one, bearing them one 
after another to that land, whence none return 
to tell its mysteries. 

But with no thoughts of death to darken her 
sunny hours, our Carrie, as full of happiness and 
music as the birds, played with her sister day 



58 THE BROKEN BUD. 



after day, thinking her grandfather's home a 
paradise. It was not to her full 

" Of voices and of melodies and of silvery laughter gone." 

When her plays were over for the day, and she 
had partaken of her evening's repast, she would 
reverently kneel, and meekly folding her little 
hands, and bowing her fair head upon mama's 
lap, would repeat her hymns and prayers. Then 
having put up her lips for a good-night kiss, she 
would lay her head upon her pillow, where in a 
moment, sleep would seal her eyes, while as yet 
the flush had not passed from her cheek. Oh 
the sleep of infancy and childhood, what in after 
life can compare with it ? There is no care- 
worn brow to be smoothed, no dark foreboding 
to be dispelled, no heart-rending grief to be 
assuaged. Then, sleep comes as to a lovely 
flower folding its leaves at the setting of the 
sun, but which at the first blush of morning, 
opens to the sweet sunlight its fair bosom, spark- 
ling with dewy pearls. So with the rosy dawn, 
did our flowret unfold its beauty. When she 
raised the snowy lid, how did her whole soul 



THE HOME OF CHILDHOOD. 59 

beam forth, while like a bird, she began her 
music for the day ! 

But now it was time for us to leave her fairy- 
land. We had for some months felt a degree of 
anxiety on account of the delicacy and excita- 
bility of her nervous temperament. She was 
susceptible to an extreme, and we feared prema- 
ture development. A physician, highly dis- 
tinguished for his skill in all diseases connected 
with the nerves, gave us the following sugges- 
tions. " Before you attempt to teach her books, 
let her be well and I would say old. Her ner- 
vous system is delicate and susceptible, and will 
not bear the confinement of school, or the appli- 
cation of mind, necessary for learning from books. 
Observation is better for her than application. 
Let her see, and occupy all the other senses as 
much as she will, but avoid intensity, to which 
such minds are particularly prone." • 

Although our dear child was very far from 
indicating anything like disease, we felt at once 
the wisdom of these suggestions, and determined 
implicitly to follow them. It was fortunate for 
us in these circumstances, that she was not a 
fretful complaining child, whom it was hard to 



60 THE BROKEN BUD. 



please. On the contrary, it was easy to entertain 
her, indeed she generally provided herself with 
amusement. And bright were our hopes as we 
watched the unfolding of our blossom. And yet 
dark clouds will often flit across a mother's sky, 
casting a broad shadow over everything. And 
the music of her household birds does not always 
dispel the gloom. Her anxious heart whispers, — 
tears will surely dim those now cloudless eyes. 
Those joyous hearts will one day bleed with an- 
guish, and perhaps father and mother be sleep- 
ing in the dust. Oh that I could shelter them 
from the ills of life ! But it may not be, — 

" For a day is coming to quell the tone 
That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one ! 
And to dim thy brow with a touch of care 
Under the gloss of its clustering hair ; 
And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes 
Into the stillness of autumn-skies ; 
And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part, 
Midst the hidden things of the human heart." 

Mrs. Hemans. 



CHAPTER IX. 

" Bright be the skies that cover thee, 

Child of the sunny brow, 
Brio-ht as the dream fluno; over thee 

By all that meets thee now. 
Thy heart is beating joyously, 

Thy voice is like a bird's, 
And sweetly breaks the melody 

Of thine imperfect words. 
I know no fount that gashes out 
So gladly as thy tiny shout. 

# * * # * # 

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child 

Keep thee as thou art now ? — 
Bring thee a spirit undefined, 

At God's pure throne to bow ? 
The world is but a broken reed, 

And life grows early dim : — 
Who shall be near thee in thy need 

To lead thee up to Him ? 



62 THE BROKEN BUD. 



He who himself was ' un defiled.' 

With him we trust thee, beautiful child." 

N". P. Willis. 

Not many days after our return home, another 
birth-day came round. The following infantile 
epistle was dictated by Carrie on this welcome 
occasion : 

" My darling Papa, 

" Here is a sugar-plum from Caddy. Papa 
good. Papa love Caddy. Caddy will be good, so 
papa won't have to punish. We will all be good 
and make papa happy. 

Your dear Caddy." 

Louise used to try a good many experiments 
with her little sister. One day on coming into 
the room, I found her sitting on the floor with 
Carrie in her lap, trying to force something into 
her mouth, while the poor child was resisting to 
the extent of her ability. " What are you doing 
my daughter ?" " Why I am trying to give the 
baby medicine to make her feel better, but she 
won't take it." Carrie would do almost every- 
thing which her sister desired, but taking medi- 
cine was not quite so agreeable. 



FESTAL DAYS. 63 



About this time occurred our child's second 
birth-day. These birth-days were great occasions 
with the children. The round table christened 
by them the " birth-day table," must be set out, 
and spread with their special playthings from the 
" birth-day box," and the " birth-day drawer." 
Then the letters and the presents, and candies 
and cakes, and apples and oranges and nuts, 
were all placed before the queen of the day, who 
with her own fair hand, waited upon the table, 
distributing the good things to her parents and 
sister, ,not forgetting a share for the girl in the 
kitchen, and the dollies all seated quietly around 
the table. This being ended, and the children 
left to their own resources, they failed not to 
entertain themselves most happily. 

Soon came on Thanksgiving, that day so dear 
to New England hearts, and so joyfully welcom- 
ed by New England children. Then followed 
Christmas, that our little girls fancied was " a 
very kind lady to bring them such presents." Last 
of all came New Year's day, redolent with kind 
wishes and warm greetings. The children thought 
there was a bright constellation of festal-days, so 
rapidly did they succeed one another. I sat up 



64 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



late the last night of the old year, to re-dress 
their old dolls, and to manufacture new ones. 
In the morning, they were not long in discovering 
their new children, and their new-dressed old chil- 
dren. And musical were their voices, as they sur- 
veyed the wonderful things that had been col- 
lected. " I wish every day would be a birth-day, 
or Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or New Year's, 
or some such day." " But why?" " Oh, be- 
cause we are so happy." 

How amply is a mother repaid for all her la- 
bors by the bright face* of her dear ones ! It is 
pleasant in looking back upon the past, whether 
as parents or children, to see scattered along our 
pilgrim-path, these green oases hallowed by the 
tenderest affection. And how will a mother, 
who has all along the passing years of their in- 
fancy, childhood, and youth, devoted herself to 
making such days bright eras with her children, 
— how vividly as the day comes round, will such 
a mother be brought to their remembrance, even 
when for years the sod has covered her ! Shall 
not the fond mother then, gather a few pearls 
for the fairy days of childhood ? Will she not 
weave some threads of gold into the dull warp 



FESTAL DAYS. 65 



of life ? Let such days be blessed by special 
kindness, let them be consecrated by instruc- 
tions, which can never be more seasonably given, 
let them be hallowed by earnest pleadings for 
heaven's richest blessings upon her dear ones. 
So in after years, shall the memory of that kind- 
ness glow in the grateful heart, and those ma- 
ternal teachings, written upon an enduring rec- 
ord, shall again come up, it may be when the feet 
are straying in devious paths ; and the remem- 
brance of a mother's prayers, and a mother's 
love may win back the wanderer to wisdom's 
ways. Then 

" Fold the little hands in prayer, teach the weak knees 

their kneeling ; 
Let him see thee speaking to thy God ; he will not forget 

it afterwards ; 
When old and gray, will he feelingly remember a mother's 

tender piety ; 
And the touching recollection of her prayers, shall arrest 

the strong man in his sin." 

But should the mother be called to lay one of 

her dear ones in the grave, she will not regret 

aught she may have done to make that heart 

beat with joy, which now will beat never again. 

5 



" Mysterious to all thought 
A mother's prime of bliss, 
When to her eager lips is brought 
Her infant's thrilling kiss. 
Oh ! never shall it set, the sacred light 

Which dawns that moment on her tender gaze, 
In the eternal distance, blending bright, 
Her darling's hope and hers, for love, and joy, and praise." 

Keble. 

"We were now in the midst of winter, but 
while it was bleak and dreary without, within 
doors all was bright and cheerful, for the pres- 
ence of a sweet blue-eyed boy, made it summer 
in our home and in our hearts. Little Carrie 
was very generous in giving up her rights, 
though sometimes her lip quivered at the sen- 
tence of banishment. But when she came in to 
make her daily visits, what bright moments 
were those to mother and to child ! How would 
my whole heart go out to the sweet dove, nest- 
ling so lovingly in my arms ! And sometimes in 
these visits, she would stand near me, and in 



THE LITTLE STRANGER. 67 

tones sweeter than a bird's, would repeat her lit- 
tle hymns, all the more charming for her pretty 
lisp. 

" ' Tis God bestows 
My food and clothes, 
And my soft bed 
To rest my bead" — " on" 

the little prattler would add. 

A friend who was with us at that time, thus 
speaks of her : 

" How eagerly your sweet Carrie drank in the 
tidings that God had given her a baby-brother ! 
Half-wonderingiy her dark eyes gazed into my 
face when I told her of the little stranger ; and 
then they filled with delight as she exclaimed, 
' a baby-brother !' And what pleadings of her 
eloquent face to hear more of the dear one who 
had entered her home to infuse new gladness 
into every heart ! And when she found voice, 
how fast her queries came ! i Has he got feet ? 
Has he got hands ? Can he walk V 

" Although she could not understand, and 
sometimes lamented, being exiled from ' mama's 
room,' yet any mention of the infant seemed 



68 THE BROKEN BUD. 



effectual to dispel the momentary cloud. She 
was so gentle, so quiet, and so easily pleased, 
that the care of her was a pleasure rather than 
a burden. She always waked in the morning 
pleasant and happy, and was invariably con- 
tented with her breakfast, never pouting or cry- 
ing when it was thought best to withhold from 
her any dish of which she saw others partake. 
And when bed-time came, she would cheerfully 
leave her little plays to repeat her simple 
prayers. How much of sunshine she shed on us 
in those winter-days ! Her graceful form flitted 
from room to room, intercepting me in every em- 
ployment with some gentle request, or infant 
story, or loving kiss. Oh, blithely did our ' lit- 
tle red-bird,' as we sometimes called her, strike 
those chords of melody, which are strung to such 
gladness in the human heart ! 

" She was extremely affectionate and grateful, 
and her sweetness, docility, and engaging manner, 
won for her a place in the hearts of those, not 
so susceptible as ordinary to infant attractions. 
She had I remember, an extreme susceptibility, — 
a proneness to intensity of feeling, which made 
it desirable to guard her from undue excitement. 



THE LITTLE STRANGER. 69 

"When I left you, I left not behind me the 
image of your darling. That was still with me 
in all its freshness and beauty. She was truly a 
darling — a loan from the kind Father of all to 
beautify and bless your earthly home." 

The baby was now getting to look around the 
room, and to take notice of people and things. 
And Carrie would stand by him in admiration, 
sometimes asking question after question, and 
again seeming to have her compassions excited, 
because her poor brother knew so little, and 
could do so very few things. Indeed, what can 
exceed the utter helplessness of an infant ? With 
its instincts, its capacities, its powers of help- 
ing itself, so inferior to the young of every other 
species, — who could suppose that in that helpless 
babe, you beheld a tiny miniature of man ? Yet 
there, untaught it is true, — there are the senses, 
through which knowledge is to pour into the 
mind ; — there, undeveloped, are the physical 
powers ; — there the germ of every intellectual 
faculty ; — there too, is the latent fire of soul, — 
the yet sealed fountain of every feeling and emo- 
tion. But all is slumbering now. It is the 
merest existence — the first few weeks of infancy. 



70 THE BROKEN BUB. 

And yet what intensity of feeling, this little 
unknowing, unconscious one awakens in its 
mother's heart ! And were an infant a rare sight, 
what interest and admiration would it excite in 
a mere passer-by ! "What artistic perfection is 
exhibited in the proportion, and symmetry and 
grace of its baby-form ! How lovely are those 
rounded arms, those fair dimpled hands ! What 
delicacy in the coloring, and what beauty in the 
features of that small round face ! And what 
serenity is imaged on that infantile brow ! 
And that snowy curtaining lid, with its blue 
veins so delicately traced, and its dark silken 
fringe shading the rosy cheek on which it rests,— r- 
oh, what a sweet picture is a sleeping infant ! 
Who but the heavenly Artist can thus paint ? 
But that fair lid is raised, and from its bright 
mirror the soul looks out inquiringly, and seeing 
a kind face bent over it, what confidingness 
beams forth ! Take its small soft hand ; — how 
lovingly the tiny fingers cling around your own ! 
It moves — it lifts its baby-arms. With what skill 
is joint fitted to joint, and with what ease and 
grace, every several part of this exquisite work- 
manship performs its office ! Who but the al- 



THE LITTLE STRANGER. 71 

mighty Artificer can construct like this ? These 
motions are now its involuntary exercise, strength- 
ening the physical powers. But soon that little 
slumbering will awakes, and then, — strange mys- 
tery ! its hidden springs begin to play, and all 
parts of that wonderful mechanism move ac- 
cordantly with its secret impellings. Oh, this 
living miniature of man ! 

" Who taught its pure and even breath 
To come and go with such sweet grace V — 

who but He, that could now place his finger 
on that heart, and its beatings would be forever 
stilled ? Then clasp not thy little one, fond 
mother, so closely to thy bosom. There is One 
lingering ever at thy threshold ; and commissioned 
from on high, he may soon place his icy kiss 
upon that brow, and seal those lips in eternal 
silence. Make no idol then, of thy child, but 
hourly give it back to Grod. 



" Do what I may, go where I will, 

Thou meet'st my sight ; 
There dost thou glide before me still, 

A form of light ! 
I feel thy breath upon my cheek, 
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak, 
Till oh, my heart is like to break. 

Methinks thou smil'st before me now, 

With glance of stealth ; 
The hair thrown back from thy full brow 

In buoyant health : 
I see thine eyes' deep violet light, 
Thy dimpled cheek, carnationed bright, 
Thy clasping arms so round and white." 

D. M. Mom. 

It is natural to the human heart to undervalue 
present blessings. If in a bright summer's day, 
we recline under a shady tree, drinking in the 



THE NEW HOME. 73 



balmy air of heaven, and listening to the warb- 
ling birds, the whispering trees, the singing 
brooks, and all nature's " unwritten music," 
while the eye rests dreamily upon a cloudless 
sky, or upon the flower-starred fields ; — is there 
not enough to fill the senses with delight, and the 
heart with thanksgiving and love ? Yet because 
this enjoyment is so often within our reach, of 
how little comparative worth is it to us ! It is 
not till the sky is overcast, till the flowers are 
faded, and we are saddened and chilled by the 
cold breath of autumn, — it is not till then, that 
we realize how bright and beautiful was the- 
summer's scene. So it is not till the clear sky 
of our domestic life is clouded, till its green leaf 
is sere and red, till the cherished flowers of our 
heart lie cold and clead before our eyes, and the 
bright summer of our home has passed forever ; — 
it is not till we are shaken and bowed before 
grief's wild tempest, that we realize our past 
bliss. 

Daring the Spring, Carrie heard of the death 
of a little girl whom she knew. She talked 
much about her having " wings on," and " a 
gold harp in her hand," and said one day, that 



74 THE BROKEN BUD. 



she thought her little friend was " in the cubby- 
house up in heaven." 

About this time, we were obliged to go through 
the discomforts of moving, a process more gratify- 
ing to children than to older people. Most dis- 
tinct in my remembrance is the last afternoon 
we spent in that dear nursery. Carrie was in 
her element as she stood at the window, watch- 
ing the loads of furniture, admiring the horses, 
and every now and then discovering some familiar 
article as it lay piled upon the wagon. " Oh, 
there are our chairs Louise," and " there mama, 
see our cunning little table." And she was full 
of what she was going to have and to do " in the 
new house." At length the carriage came, and 
dear Carrie passed for the last time through the 
yard over those planks, where her little feet had 
so often bounded along. She came with us for a 
season into our new home, to render it as the 
scene of her happiest and of her last days, dearer 
and more hallowed to our hearts in its indescrib- 
able desolation, than the brightest spot on earth. 

The children were delighted with the " cun- 
ning little room" opening from the nursery, 
which was to be their sleeping room and baby- 



THE NEW HOME. 75 



house. And many, many a sunny hour did the 
dear child pass, flitting back and forth from her 
" cubby-house," as she called it, now coming to 
tell mama some pretty story, or show some won- 
derful thing, or give a sweet kiss, and then re- 
turning to her children and her castle-building. 
As the warm days came on, another source of 
delight was discovered in a long garret, where 
the children could romp to their heart's content. 
Thither a part of their play-things were trans- 
ported, and there " papa" put them up a swing, 
and a rope for gymnastics. 

Some new source of enjoyment seemed to be 
constantly opening before them. In the latter 
part of May, they would go with their father 
into the garden, to help him plant and sow. 
How fast would Carrie's feet trip over the beds, 
and how often would she, in her busiest mo- 
ments, look up at the window, and blow a kiss 
to mama. She was delighted to watch her 
father while digging the ground, and preparing 
it for the seed. He took great pains to prevent 
any unpleasant association with worms and in- 
sects, as well as to form happy ones with birds 
and flowers. Much discomfort is oftentimes oc- 



76 THE BROKEN BUD. 

casioned through inattention to this subject, or a 
misdirection of the mind of a child, by feelings 
which in maturer years can hardly be overcome. 

On returning from a short journey with the 
children, we stopped a few days at their grand- 
father's. And while on this visit, we sent for a 
baby-jumper, or as Carrie called it, " a jumping 
baby." How brimful of ecstacy were her eyes, 
and what a merry laugh burst from her, as she 
danced gracefully, her fairy form bounding up 
and down with a light spring, her feet scarcely 
touching the floor, and the flush still deepening 
on her cheek. And then the baby must be put 
into the jumper. It was a beautiful sight — 
the little fellow springing, and jumping, and 
crowing, and laughing, and those two fond sis- 
ters on either side, speaking to him in the most 
loving tones, and cheering him on to still greater 
feats. And many a happy hour the three thus 
passed together, when it was too warm to play 
out of doors. 

What a constant well-spring of joy are loving 
little children ! 

" Confiding sweetness colors all they say, 
And angels listen when they try to pray. 



THE NEW HOME. 77 



More playful than the birds of spring, 

Ingenuous, warm, sincere ; 
Like meadow bees upon the wing, 
They roam without a fear ; 
And breathe their thoughts on all who round them live, 
As light sheds beams, or flowers their perfume give." 

Montgomery. 



" A child in a house is a well-spring of pleasure, a mes- 
senger of peace and love : 

A resting-place for innocence on earth ; a link between 
angels and men ; 

Yet is it a talent of trust, a loan to be rendered back 
with interest ; 

A delight, but redolent with care ; honey-sweet, but lack- 
ing not the bitter. 

For character groweth day by day, and all things aid it 
in unfolding, 

And the bent unto good or evil may be given in the 
hours of infancy : 

Scratch the green rind of a sapling, or wantonly twist it 
in the soil, 

The scarred and crooked oak will tell of thee for centuries 
to come ; 

Even so mayst thou guide the mind to good, or lead it to 
the mar rings of evil ; 

For disposition is builded up by the fashioning of first im- 
pressions ; 

And the habit of obedience and trust may be grafted on 
the mind in the cradle." M. F. Tupper. 



FILIAL OBEDIENCE. 79 

A disposition guileless, confiding, and loving to 
an unusual degree, was early manifested by our 
dear Carrie. And she was easily subdued. We 
can remember but once in which, there was any- 
thing like a contest with her, which occurred 
when she was about two years old. After this 
she yielded without resistance. There was great 
intensity in her feelings, but however her heart 
might be set upon anything, it seemed easy for 
her to give it up, when told it was not best for her 
to have it. " It's never mind," was a phrase 
often in her mouth, to show that she meant to 
submit as cheerfully as possible. And when her 
older sister found it harder to feel right about any 
disappointment, the dear child would look in her 
face most affectionately, saying in sweetly per- 
suasive tones, " It's never mind, titter" " Just 
as mama thinks best," was another frequent 
phrase with her. And the cheerful manner in 
which she would say it, when her little heart was 
swelling with sorrow, might well have taught 
me a lesson of submission to my heavenly Father's 
will. If she ever manifested any wrong feeling, 
a sorrowful look was almost sure to subdue it, 
and with the sweetest expressions of penitence 



80 THE BROKEN BUD. 

I 

and love, she would come and twine her little 
arms around her mother's neck. 

There is scarcely a point about which a devoted 
mother will feel so much anxiety and difficulty, 
as in securing uniform and prompt obedience. 
There are children who seem particularly dis- 
inclined to this. Even in indifferent matters, 
they like to show a will of their own, and a 
rebellious spirit is so often manifested, if not in 
open resistance, yet in constant aggressions upon 
authority, by professed misunderstandings of the 
command, by dilatoriness, by ill-natured compli- 
ance, or by constant teasing to be excused, that 
it requires no little judgment to know how to 
obtain implicit obedience and submission. If 
the Christian mother realized how intimately 
connected is this point with the present and 
eternal welfare of her children, would she not at 
all events see to it, that they " forsake not the 
law of their mother ?" " For it is an ornament of 
grace unto their head, and chains about their 
neck." " The rod and reproof give wisdom ; but 
a child left to himself brmgeth his mother to 
shame." 

In securing a habit of obedience, she is remov- 



ing one obstacle in the way of her children's 
becoming disciples of Christ, for a spirit of 
insubordination to parental authority, is one of 
the greatest hindrances to their humble submis- 
sion to divine authority. By her desire then for 
her children's highest welfare, let the young 
mother require from them a uniform, and prompt, 
and un answering obedience to her commands. 
And if she feels her own inexperience and igno- 
rance, and who does not? — let her study the 
divine oracles, and pray for heavenly guidance. 
So shall she be enlightened in her duty, and 
enabled to lead her children in wisdom's ways. 

" Give him not all his desire, so shalt thou strengthen 

him in hope ; 
Neither stop with indulgence the fountain of his tears, so 

shall he fesr thy firmness. 
Above all things, graft on him subjection, yea in the 

veriest trifle. 

Courtesy to all, reverence to some, and to thee, unanswer- 

ing obedience." 

M. F. Tupper. 



u What shall I liken thee to, Carrie ?* 
What shall I liken thee to ? 
What so sweet and so fair can with thee compare ? 

What shall I liken thee to ? - 

Shall I call thee a flower, born in the first shower, 

That tells us the spring-tide is here, Carrie ? 
No, the flower fades away, at the close of the day ; 
Thou art blooming and sweet all the year, Carrie. 

What shall I liken thee to, Carrie ? 
What shall I liken thee to 1 
What rings out so free, as thy laugh full of glee ? 

What shall I liken thee to? 
Shall I call thee a bird, whose warble is heard 

From the bough of the blossoming tree, Carrie? 
No, the bird's song is still, when November blows chill ; 
Never wind shall blow coldly on thee, Carrie. 

* In the original Susie. 



A FATHER'S INTEREST. 83 

What shall I liken thee to, Carrie ? 
What shall I liken thee to ? 
What so precious and bright, as thy face of delight ? 

What shall I liken thee to ? 
To brilliants that shine, like stars from the mine, 

Or pearls from the depths of the sea, Carrie ? 

ISTo, the gem has been sold, for silver and gold ! 

But what price could ever buy thee, Carrie ? 

There's naught I can liken thee to, Carrie ! 
There's naught I can liken thee to ; 
Bird, flowret, and gem, alike I condemn ; 

There's naught I can liken thee too. 
Thou'rt a gift from above, of the Father of love, 
Sent to call our hearts upward to Him, Carrie ; 
His smile we see now, in the light on thy brow ; 
God grant it may never grow dim, Carrie." 

G. W. Bethune. 

On a pleasant afternoon, with Carrie's hand in 
mine, when on a visit at her grandfather's, we 
went across the shady walk, to that sacred spot 
where rested our departed ones. While all had 
been changing above them, they had slept on, 
with not one unquiet dream to trouble their 
repose. And the soft sunshine lay upon their 
graves, and the green grass waved over them, 



84 THE BROKEN BUD. 



and the weeping willow in mute sympathy 
bowed its head, while its slender branches tear- 
fully kissed the wild flowers that sprang up 
beneath it. And knowing naught of death, 
blithely dear Carrie tripped along, innocently 
sporting beside the graves, except when her sym- 
pathizing heart was touched with our sorrow. 

After a few days we returned home, where 
the children with unabated zeal, resumed their 
simple occupations in doors and out. One day 
their father found them in the barn-loft. They 
had climbed up there in pursuit of something 
new, and having discovered an old ricketty stand, 
they had carried it down the ladder-like stairs, 
and were about repeating the feat with a little 
stove, so that they " could have a fire in it and 
bake." 

About this time occurred another birth-day, 
and here is a letter from Carrie. 

" I lud du, (love you) my darling papa. I 
want to kiss yon a great many times. Oh, I 
could jump it makes me so happy to have 
birth-days come. I like to have the round table 
out. And I like to sit at it. And I like candy 
and sugar-plums because they are sweet. Here 



A FATHER'S INTEREST. 85 

in a paper all done up is a sugar kiss for you 

from little Lina ! 

Oh papa ! will you carry me and Louisa on 

your shoulder to Canada to-day, because it will 

make you happy to see us laugh so. We are 

going to be good children all day long. This is 

from 

" little Me." 

This riding on papa's shoulder was a favorite 
amusement. What a sparkling of Carrie's eyes, 
and what a clear ringing laugh burst from her, 
as mounted on high, with her dimpled hand laid 
patronizingly upon her father's head, he carried 
her back and forth singing as he went. And 
when she descended, and he said, " How are you 
going to pay me for your ride ?" she would 
throw her arms around his neck saying, " I 
thank you kind, kind papa." 

Some fathers are apt to surrender to the 
mother, all care and instruction and government 
of their children, but in doing this do they not 
surrender also some of their dearest privileges ? 
In the Bible we nowhere find a grant for the 
father's absolution from the parental duties. In- 
deed it is to him as the responsible head of the 



86 THE BROKEN BUD. 

family, that its precepts relating to the govern- 
ment of children are particularly directed. It 
was Abraham, and not Sarah, who was com- 
mended for commanding his house after him. 
It was Eli, and not his wife, who was censured, 
because in the wickedness of their children u he 
restrained them not." And while the chief care, 
particularly with young children, necessarily de- 
volves upon the mother, yet in his hours of re- 
laxation, a father can manifest much interest, 
and that without the least interference with his 
business or his comfort. And in sickness, how 
many a little kindness can he show, which will 
bring a gleam of sunshine over the pale face of 
his suffering child ! Such an interest not only 
lightens the burden, which at times weighs op- 
pressively upon almost every mother, — and con- 
firms her authority, but it also gives him an in- 
fluence over his children, which could not other- 
wise be obtained. "Without something of this, 
he can hardly be anything but a nominal father. 
And certainly he cannot expect otherwise to win 
that peculiar affection, which is one of a parent's 
sweetest rewards. 

No pains was too great for Carrie, that might 



A FATHER'S INTEREST. 87 

attract her father's notice. On the Sabbath, 
when she did not go to church, she would watch 
at the window for his return, bounding into the 
hall with her kiss of welcome. And then she 
would run into the nursery to be ready to hand 
him his slippers, and "here papa is your geen 
gown." Her bird-like voice is still in my ear, 
striving to give utterance to her affection. " Dear 
papa, darling papa, bird papa, dove papa, seet 
(sweet) papa." 

Their brother's baptism was an occasion of 
great interest to the little girls. And when he 
was taken out of church, Louise must go into 
the aisle followed by little Carrie, who before she 
could be reached, jumped down from the seat, 
and stood by her sister's side till they saw the 
baby safely out. 

" Not a flower on earth's wide bosom, 
But thou visitest with dew ; 
Spirit ! let this opening* blossom 
Feel thy heavenly influence too. 
In thy faithful arms I place him, 
Thine alone, oh let him be, — 
Father ! with thy love embrace him, 
Suffer him to come to Thee." 

Gr. W. Bethune. 



$jr* $jjhfo 36irtjr-in»[. 



K We have an angel in our home, 
A bright and happy one, 
With hair as golden as the clouds, 

Around the setting sun ; 
Her eyes are like the stars that gem 

The beauty of the night, 
And over all her face they shed 
An exquisite delight." 

Richard Coe, Jr. 



" Beauty was on thy cheek, and thou didst seem 
A privileged being — chartered from decay ; 
And thy free spirit, like a mountain stream 
That hath no ebb, kept on its cheerful way : 
Thy laugh was like the inspiring breath of spring, 
That thrills the heart, and cannot be unfelt ; 

The sun, the moon, the green leaves, and the flowers, 
And every living thing, 
Were a strong joy to thee — thy spirit dwelt 
Gladly in life, rejoicing in its powers." 

Mary Howitt. 

Not a day passed in which Carrie did not be- 



THE THIRD BIRTH-DAY. 89 

come more and more dear to us. Truly was her 
little heart 

" A fountain pure of kind and tender feeling, 
And her every look, a gleam of light, rich depths of love 
revealing." 

This love was constantly welling over from the 
full fountain within. "Papa!" "What my 
daughter ?" " I lud duP This she would say 
spontaneously at all times of day, and sometimes 
in the night. One Sabbath at church, in the 
midst of the sermon, she suddenly spoke aloud, 
" I lud clu," putting up her lips to kiss mama. 
It seemed to come from an irresistible impulse 
which could hardly be rebuked. 

One day, when I had been telling the children 
about Satan's temptings to evil, little Carrie, 
with great spirit lisped out, "If Hatan nippers" 
(if Satan whispers,) "if Hatan hippers in my 
ear, I shall say, get away HatanP Her tone 
showed so much excitement that I said, " Not 
just so Carrie !" She received the rebuke with 
her usual sweetness and answered quickly, " No, 
if Hatan hippers in my ear, I shall say, pease 
(please) Hatan, go away," and this with such an 



90 THE BROKEN BUD. 

indescribable charm of tone and manner, that it 
seemed as if even the Prince of evil might al- 
most be softened by so touching an appeal. 

For some time I had kept a kind of school for 
the children in our nursery. Carrie was de- 
lighted with the idea of being a scholar. And 
although what she was allowed to do was only 
for amusement, yet she improved rapidly. She 
would sit down in her little chair before her low 
table, and study at her self-appointed tasks with 
a zeal worthy of imitation. And if wishing to 
divert her attention, I gave her her sewing, she 
would pull her needle through and through, all 
the time prattling forth her sunny thoughts. 
Then she would read from a book, composing as 
she went along, or ask "to write caterpillars on 
the slate," by which we supposed she meant 
catechism. And when school was done, she 
would gaily skip away to her baby-tending or 
tower-building. If I went into the kitchen to 
make pies or cake, her little feet w T ould soon be 
patting down the stairs after me. " May I help 
you, mama ? I should like to so much." Then 
trotting off for her little board and roller, she 
would take her piece of dough, saying, " I thank 



THE THIRD BIRTH-DAY. 91 

you kind mama." If we were up garret, " See 
mama, how I can wing" and with a bound, she 
would catch hold of the rope with both her hands, 
and swing away most merrily. 

We had taken pains to teach the children the 
distinction between liking and loving. So one 
day while we were at the table, Carrie broke 
forth, " I don't like you papa, because you ain't 
my dinner, but I lud du. I don't hid my dinner, 
because it isn't papa, but I like it." 

About this time, she went with her father to 
spend a day or two at her aunt's. When she had 
on her tunic and bonnet, her face was perfectly 
radiant, but her joy was a little tempered by 
seeing her sister somewhat saddened at the 
thought of being left behind. When her father 
led her from the door, though her feet bounded 
along, yet her heart lingered with her sister, and 
till out of sight, her bright face was turned back 
towards the door where Louise stood watching 
her. 

But among all the periods hallowed by tender 
recollections, our minds linger around none with 
more peculiar fondness, than her third birth-day. 
On this never-to-be-forgotten morning, we were 



92 THE BROKEN BUD. 



awakened by glad voices. " Mama," called 
Carrie, " shall you set the birth-day table right 
after breakfast ?" They were sent up stairs to 
play, while arrangements were made. In the 
corner of their room was placed the " birth-day 
table," on which were laid their choice play- 
things, and the letters and presents for the queen 
of the day. Their dolls in new dresses were 
seated around the room, and their various boxes 
placed in due order. When everything was 
ready their father was called, and then the bell 
rung for the children. How did Carrie's face 
beam as she looked around, while her feelings 
found vent in thanks and kisses ! " Thank you, 
kind papa, kind mama. I lud du." After her 
emotion had somewhat subsided, her little epis- 
tles were read to her, among which was the 
following. 

" To my darling Carrie. 

" You are just three years old to-day, and you 
have been growing dearer to your father, each 
year as you have been growing older. And I 
hope you will be growing better too, every year 
that you live. Then your father and mother 



THE THIRD BIRTH-DAY. 



93 



who love you so much, will be made very happy. 
You see how many pretty things your mother 
has collected for you. Don't you think she loves 
you ? Your dear sister loves you too, and your 
little brother is beginning to love you, and to coo 
around you. And your father you know, is very 
fond of his little Carrie. Now if you are a good 
child, Grod will love you, and that will make you 
very happy and be the best of all. Be a good 
child then, and take this little letter as a proof of 

Your father's love." 

When the letters had been read and the kisses 
given, the children went about their plays in 
earnest, and all that morning was heard the 
hum of their busy voices. After dinner they 
were sent up garret to romp again, while their 
feast was made ready. Cakes and candies and 
apples and nuts and grapes were placed upon the 
table with their tea-set. When the bell was 
rung, never did more willing feet fly over the 
stairs, and they were soon seated with their 
afternoon's work before them. It was an amus- 
ing sight, — little Carrie waiting upon herself. 
Not a word she spoke, but went directly to work, 



94 THE BROKEN BUD. 



filled her tiny cup half full of sugar, then the 
remaining half with milk, pouring the cocoa on 
the top, which of course ran over upon the waiter. 
There they sat rapt in silent joy, offering their 
good things to their babies, but eating them 
themselves. Carrie seemed in danger of swallow- 
ing her cups and saucers, for she poured cocoa 
cup and all into her sweet mouth. 

The daylong as it had seemed in anticipation, 
passed speedily away, but in memory they often 
lived it over again. The mention to Carrie of her 
third birth-day was sure to make her eloquent. 
And our thoughts were running forward to the 
time when she would be four years old. But 
wdiile we were thus cherishing the dearest hopes, 
and pleading with Grod for his richest blessings 
upon our child, we little thought how he was 
preparing to answer our petitions. And yet — 

" Be still my heart ! what could a mother's prayer, 
In all the wildest ecstasy of hope, 
Ask for its darling like the bliss of heaven ?" 



CHAPTER XV. 

$t\lh\nn unit foninlnn. 

" She was my idol. Night and day to scan 
The fine expansion of her form, and mark 
The unfolding mind, like vernal rose-bud start 
To sudden beauty, was my chief delight. 
To find her fairy footsteps follow me, 
Her hands upon my garments, or her lip 
Long sealed to mine, and in the watch of night, 
The quiet breath of innocence to feel 
Soft on my cheek, was such a full content 
Of happiness, as none but mothers know. 
Her voice was like some tiny harp, that yields 
To the light-fingered breeze ; and as it held 
Brief converse with her doll, or playful soothed 
The moaning kitten, or with patient care 
Conned o'er the alphabet,— but most of all, 
Its tender cadence in her evening prayer, 
Thrilled on the ear like some etherial tone 
Heard in sweet dreams." 

Mrs. Sigourney, 



96 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



"What would you like to have your father 
bring you home my children?" " A rocking-horse, 
if he can find one," was their animated reply. 
" Well, he is coming up the stairs, and you can 
see." They ran to the door, and there stood 
their father, and by his side a nice new rocking- 
horse. What clapping of the hands, what fond 
epithets, what caresses lavished upon us and 
upon the little horse ! " Pony Pomp," they chris- 
tened it at once, and " I like it, oh I like it," 
was often repeated as they rocked away. When 
they bade good night, Pony Pomp came in for 
rather more than his share of the kisses, and 
when they went to bed they must have him 
close by their side. Before light the next morn- 
ing, we were awaked by the tramp of Pony 
Pomp, with the pleasant accompaniment of happy 
voices. 

Carrie seemed to enjoy anything the better for 
sharing it with others. And this is the true 
philosophy of happiness, inasmuch as generosity 
is better than selfishness. But it is not un fre- 
quently the case that a mother or other indulgent 
friends, will give a child some dainty, never en- 
couraging it to offer any to others ; and if it 



THE SELFISH AND THE BENEVOLENT SPIRIT. 97 

should do so of its own accord, they praise its 
generosity, while they scrupulously refus3 evm 
to taste what is offered. A mother will some- 
times do this from the kindest feelings, never 
considering that she is thus with her own hand, 
sowing in her child's bosom the seeds of selfish- 
ness, — that hateful and noxious weed which 
springs up spontaneously and grows so rankly in 
the human heart. Beware fond mother, that 
this Upas tree overshadow not with its gigantic 
growth, that precious spirit committed to thy 
hand. Selfishness needs no culture, and not- 
withstanding the pruning knife, is apt to spread 
all over the soil, poisoning whatever it touches. 
Remember that 

" Disposition is builded up by the fashioning of first im- 
pressions," 

and that by such lessons as you may uncon- 
sciously give your child in its tender years, you 
may cherish the worst propensities, and yourself 
make it difficult for the principles of pure religion 
to take root and prevail in its heait, although 
that they may do so, be the daily burden of your 
prayers. Let not your child then, grow up with 



the mistaken idea that it is the sun and centre 
of the domestic system. Strive rather to pluck 
up the root of selfishness, and if you cannot do 
this, at least cut off its extending branches. 

If a mother gives her child proper instruction, 
and can induce him voluntarily to make trial of 
the generous principle, his own experience will 
convince him, that the smallest and the poorest 
portion, will give more pleasure to a generous 
spirit, than the best and the largest to a selfish 
one ; — that self-sacrifice, if it can be thus called, 
even in little things, brings with it a higher en- 
joyment than self-indulgence. From his earliest 
childhood encourage him to impart to others, to 
sympathize with the sorrowful, to relieve the 
suffering, even by the breaking in upon his little 
treasury of collected pennies. Teach him by 
your precept and example that "It is more 
blessed to give than to receive," and you do far 
more for his happiness, — you enrich him with 
a nobler legacy, than if you bestowed upon him 
thousands of gold and silver. 

This sunshiny spirit — the giving others of our 
light and warmth, had a sweet home in our Car- 
rie's heart. Her sympathies were quick and 



THE SELFISH AND THE BENEVOLENT SPIRIT. 99 



strong, and it seemed to be her great happiness, 
to do all she could in her little way to make 
others happy. " Can I help you mama? I 
should like to help you." She would arrange 
my work-basket, or with the little brush sweep 
up the carpet, or wind thread, or any thing 
whereby she felt as if she were doing good. 
Flowing from her spirit of kindness, was a con- 
siderate disposition, a thoughtfulness for the 
wants of others, and a readiness to sacrifice her 
own little pleasures, in a degree which we felt to 
be not common in so young a child. She would 
run from her plays when we came into the room, 
to set out the rocking-chair or arrange the 
cushion for us. And often would she of her own 
accord, take the cricket on which she was sit- 
ting, and place it before my feet, looking up with 
her peculiar smile, for some token of approval. 

She had a great sympathy for the girl in the 
kitchen. " Poor Maly" she would often say 
when she saw her doing anything which seemed 
hard, frequently offering to help her. It was 
her habit to save a share of her nice things for 
the domestic. And so much did she and her sis- 
ter feel for the misfortune of an Irish girl in not 



100 THE BROKEN BUD, 



knowing her own birth-day, that after talking 
about it a great deal, they came to the conclu- 
sion that they could fix upon one for her. But 
not knowing how to arrange it, they begged 
their mother's help, and had a regular birth-day 
celebration. 

We were glad to encourage this disposition, 
because it seems desirable to strew some flowers 
in the most rugged path, and because we felt 
that it tended to encourage a benevolent spirit. 
There is a manner of treating servants, natural 
to many a child, which not only makes harder 
their already hard lot, but is most unhappy in 
its influence on the child itself. By allowing it 
thus to magnify its own importance, a selfish, 
overbearing spirit is fostered, than which scarcely 
anything is more repulsive. But 

" The child is father of the man," 

and the same spirit gaining root, not only ren- 
ders one uncomfortable to himself and to others 
in all the relations of life, but it involves a radi- 
cal defect in character, which unfits him for tho 
brotherhood of man, and for the discipleship of 
the lowly, self-sacrificing Jesus. 



THE SELFISH AND THE BENEVOLENT SPIRIT. 101 

If a mother would have her children grow up 
respectful to their superiors, kind and affable to 
their inferiors, and courteous in their demeanor 
to all, she must cultivate the disposition and the 
manner in childhood. The Bible enjoins cour- 
teousness, and connects fear of Grod with reve- 
rence for the aged, evidently presuming that 
where the latter is cherished, the former is more 
likely to ensue. " Thou shalt rise up before the 
hoary head, and honor the face of the old man, 
and fear thy God." 

The children had much talk about Christmas 
some days before it came. They had been un- 
well, and were not able to hang up their stock- 
ings the evening previous, and so they asked 
" mother" to do it for them. " Is there anything 
in the stockings ?" was the first question in the 
morning. Carrie was lifted into the closet, to 
see how full hers hung, and after breakfast, she 
sat up in her crib having the table near her. 
With trembling eagerness her little hand drew 
out one thing after another, till all was revealed 
to her wondering eyes. 

That bright day was one of the green spots on 
which the dear child loved to look back. But 



102 THE BROKEN BUD. 



why does memory so linger around the festal days 
of the last year ? Why is it that the sweet 
child's image is so often before me as she looked 
this Christmas day sitting in her crib, her 
hands filled with the gifts which she had pulled 
from her stocking, while she was prattling 
away so musically ? Why, but because it was 
her last Christmas, — the last time that dear 
hand was to be so busied ? 

" The last ! the last ! the last ! 
Oh, by that little word 
How many thoughts are stirred I" 



^trilis nf Xlh. — tynsnixamt. 



"Gaze on— 'tis lovely ! childhood's lip and cheek 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought. 
Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair and meek 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine Wrought? 
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, 
What death must fashion for eternity." 

Mrs. Hemans. 



Cheerful were the sounds that broke our 
slumbers on the first day of the New Year. 
Carrie crept from her crib as was her custom in 
the morning, and laid her velvet cheek to mine 
prattling of her love. Often will a mother have 
sad thoughts as she looks into the sunny face of 
her child. And especially at the commencement 
of the year, when the mind traverses the horizon, 
calling up memories from the past, and shadows 
from the future, till blended together they al- 
most seem like present realities, — at this season 
of retrospection and anticipation, how natural 
for a mother to roll onward the clouds that have 



104 THE BROKEN BUD. 



shaded her own life, into the far-future of her 
child's history ! And knowing that suffering is 
the very condition of humanity, how will her 
heart ache for her little one ! Its tiny bark now 
glittering in the sunshine with all the fresh 
colors of childhood, is soon to put forth upon the 
broad sea. In its onward course, it must be 
tossed upon the surge, it must encounter the 
storm, the quicksands, and the whirlpool, — and 
who can foretell its fate ? With such an uncer- 
tain and perilous future, how will the anxious 
mother long to shelter her child from the ex- 
posures of life. But it may not be. Sorrow is 
its needed discipline. It must learn in the school 
of suffering, or it will not learn at all. 

But while she is thus hoping and fearing, 
trembling and pleading for the sweet one now 
cradled in her arms, — suppose that some angel 
hand commissioned from the eternal throne, 
instead of launching her child's frail bark upon 
the troubled sea of life, guides it quickly over the 
yet unfeared river of death, 

" Into that tranquil bay 
Whose waters pure reflect eternal day." 

Shall she mourn that it has passed " the rough 



PERILS OF LIFE. 105 



sea's foam?" Will she not rather thank Him 
who sitteth above the storms, that He has res- 
cued her dear one from the perils of life's voyage, 
and thus early taken it into his own perpetual 
sunshine ? 

Meantime we were going on pleasantly in our 
little school, and other exercises. Carrie was 
always cheerful and always busy. Whatever 
she did, whether work or play, was done with 
her whole heart. And her mind was active as 
well as her body. 

Often in the midst of some play, she would 
come to mama, and slightly knitting her thought- 
ful brow, would make some remark or ask some 
question, showing that 

" Her little heart was busy still, and oftentimes perplexed 
With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts 
about the next." 

And yet in connection with this thoughtfulness, 
she had a peculiarly playful manner — an arch- 
ness of expression that was sometimes quite 
irresistible. " Carrie, who killed his brother ?" 
" Cain." " And who was the brother?" With 
her arch look she replied, " Why hid budder, 
Cain's budder." * * # * 



106 THE BROKEN BUD. 

In some way, if it Were practicable, she would 
almost always contrive to carry through what 
she had commenced : so that there was little 
occasion for urging her to perseverance. This 
trait is more essential to the formation of an 
efficient character, than we are apt to suppose. 
It is indispensable to success in any undertaking, 
and to the formation of an energetic, self-relying 
habit of mind. And yet how often when a child 
yields to the first discouragement, is it allowed 
to stop there ! Thus obstacles are sure to multi- 
ply, and impossibilities to increase, and conse- 
quently the child grows up timid and irresolute, 
and is likely to be unsuccessful in whatever he 
undertakes. How important then, that a child 
should learn from his earliest years to depend 
upon himself; — that "I can't" should not be 
allowed to enter into his vocabulary, but that in 
his studies, his little employments, and even in 
his plays, he should be encouraged to persevere 
in whatever he commences. Even should it 
take him ten times longer to do it alone than if 
helped by another, it is worth more than ten 
times as much to him by the discipline thus 
acquired. And if a habit of persevering applica- 



HABITS OF PERSEVERANCE. 107 

tion be so important to the intellectual character, 
it is scarcely less so to correct moral develop- 
ment. A child who is accustomed to yield to the 
obstacles in his way, will be quite likely to be 
overcome by the temptations w T hich beset his 
path. From the want of that resolution and 
independence, which are the result of persevering 
and thence successful effort, he fails in that 
decision of character, which is necessary for the 
utterance of the decisive no. And wanting this 
power of resistance to what his conscience con- 
demns, it will be strange indeed if he be not 
beguiled farther and farther along 

" The bright, broad, crowded way." 

Let the mother then be careful how she en- 
courages habits, which will not only obstruct the 
intellectual progress of her child, and be a barrier 
in the way of all successful enterprise, but which 
are likely to occasion an equally defective moral 
character. 



€$i iiinn &n$. 



" Cast in simplicity's own mould, 
How canst thou be so manifold 
In sportively bewitching charms, — 
Thy lips, thine eyes, thy dimpled arms ? 

* * * % 

My arch and playful little creature, 
Thou hast a mind in every feature. 
Thy brow, with its disparted locks 
Speaks language that translation mocks. 

* * * % 

Thou hast not to adorn thee, girl, 
Flower, link of gold, or gem, or pearl : 
I would not see a ruby speck 
The passing whiteness of thy neck. 
Thou need'st no casket, witching elf, — 
No gaud — thy toilet is thyself; 
Not e'en a rosebud from the bower, — 
Thyself a magnet, gem, and flower P 

Thomas Campbell. 



THE SILVER CUP. 109 



We were again in the midst of winter, but it 
was not winter in our pleasant nursery. The 
soft sunshine looked in at the windows, and lay 
upon the wall, as if it were the reign of Spring. 
And our sweet bud was unfolding her loveliness 
every day. Her life was all music and gladness. 

" And her voice, it had the warbling gush 
Of a bird upon the wing." 

She was the very picture of health, and yet her 
susceptibility to excitement, connected with a 
peculiarly imaginative temperament, and great 
intensity of feeling, occasioned us some anxiety. 
She would often awake in the night and call out, 
" mama I see naughty things." Once she said, 
" I see great eyes." We never asked her ques- 
tions about what she saw, but endeavored to di- 
vert her attention, till she fell into a quiet slum- 
ber. 

A friend who saw her about this time, was 
struck with her peculiar delicacy and sensitive- 
ness, and expressed the feeling that one thus 
constituted, was inevitably destined to suffer 
acutely if she lived. In this feeling we fully par- 
ticipated. But had we known our heavenly 



110 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Father's purposes, there would have been no oc- 
casion for such solicitude. 

" Ah ! this cold, bli^htin^ clime was unmeet 
For a spirit so gentle and mild, — 
That radiant expression too sweet 

For auo-ht but a heaven-destined child." 

Their father used sometimes to please the chil- 
dren by giving them fanciful names. The one 
bestowed upon our household-bird was Beautitia. 
Neither she nor her sister had any idea of its im- 
port, but she was delighted with its sound, and 
sometimes when addressed as Carrie, she would 
say, " No, I am Beautitia." 

During the winter we had a visit from a friend, 
whom she called " cousin Maly" Eagerly did 
Carrie watch her, as she took from her muff a 
parcel, which she opened, handing the dear child 
a silver cup, designed for a New Year's gift. How 
her eyes shone as she held it with both her little 

hands, and looked at her name 

written upon it. But they shone brighter still 
as she caught her own sweet face reflected in the 
clear silver. When her father came in, she ran 
to him with her treasure in her hands, saying, 



THE SILVER CUP. 



Ill 



" See papa, here is my new tin cup. It is siller 
(silver) outside, and siller inside, and siller on 
the bottom." After this it was called " the new 
tin cup.' 5 It was precious to us then, as a token 
of the dear departed one whose name our dar- 
ling bore. How doubly precious is it to us now, 
as a remembrancer of our cherub-daughter ! In 
health, her little hands have often held it, and 
her rosy lips drank from it. And from her sick 
bed, the dear child called for her " new tin cup," 
and her wasted fingers would try to clasp the 
handle as we raised her drooping head to drink. 
Yes ! her dying lips have touched its brim, and 
it is now hallowed to us by all these tenderest 
associations. Her sweet name is still written 
upon it, but that sweeter face will no more be 
imaged there. 

" And oh ! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted ! 

Alas ! it seems as if the sunny day 

Turned from its door away, 
While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, 

I languish for thy voice, which past me still 

Went like a singing rill." 



#qmpattrtj, itnfr tut ttf /Intrurs. 

" Oh ! there are recollections 

Round mothers' hearts that cling, — 
That mingle with the tears 
And smiles of after years, 
With oft awakening." C. Bowles. 

" I see thee still. 
Remembrance, faithful to her trust, 
Calls thee in beauty from the dust. 
Thou comest in the morning light — 
Thou 'rt with me through the gloomy night ; 
In dreams I meet thee as of old, 
Then thy soft arms my neck enfold, 
And thy sweet voice is in my ear ; 
In every scene to memory dear — 
I see thee still." 

Charles Sprague. 

The reign of hoary Winter had ended, and 
Spring had unbound his icy chains from the 
streams, and had loosed his fetters from the little 
brooks and rills, which now ran through the 



SYMPATHY, AND LOVE OF FLOWERS. 113 

green grass babbling most musically. Every- 
where was the sound of rushing waters and of 
singing birds. And within doors and without, 
was our robin red-breast warbling her blithe 
song. When her father went out into the wood- 
house, he was almost sure to hear her little feet 
on the planks, bounding after him. " Who is 
here ?" " Me." " And who is me ?" " Caddy." 
" And who is Caddy ?" " " 

The fountain of love in her soul was constantly 
overflowing in gushing streams of affection, mak- 
ing green every spot they watered. Sometimes she 
would lavish epithet upon epithet, in the attempt 
to express her full heart. And her confiding love 
extended to every one. " Whose baby is Caddy ?" 
" Papa's baby." " And whose else ?" " Mama's 
baby." " And whose else?" "All the bodies' 
baby." It was seldom indeed that the kindly 
current of her affections was checked by any 
wrong feeling, but if this ever occurred, and she 
was tempted to say, " now I don't lud anybody," 
a look of sorrow would bring out her emphatic 
" I do lud du." 

But in the midst of our sunshine, a cloud was 
passing over our heads. The children's father 



114 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



went out of town, and returned with the sad 
tidings that a dear relative had left us for the 
spirit-land. Carrie was at the door waiting for 
him, but when she looked into his face, her joy- 
ous expression vanished, and with a subdued 
tenderness she put her little arms around his 
neck, saying so mournfully as she laid her rosy 
cheek to his, " poor papa, poor papa !" 

Her father leaving us for a few days, no words 
can express the sweetness and sympathy which 
Carrie manifested in his absence. By many a 
little ministration in her own gentle way she 
cheered the lonely hours. If in her plays she 
left me for a moment, she would soon be back 
with words of endearment, or some fond caress. 
She would stand for a long time by my side 
picking up pieces of work as they dropped, say- 
ing so affectionately, " Ain't I your good girl 
mama ?" A child many years older, could 
scarcely have manifested more intelligent sympa- 
thy, or more adequately ministered to sorrow. 
And I felt at the time that a grown-up daughter 
would hardly have been more company to me in 
her father's absence, than was our little Carrie. 
It was on a pleasant afternoon that the nursery 



SYMPATHY, AMD LOVE OF FLOWERS. 115 



door opened, — and what a shouting of glad voices, 
what a stretching forth of little arms, what a 
putting up of rosy lips to kiss " dear darling 
papa." 

It was now a season of the year when the chil- 
dren could be much out of doors, and well they 
improved their liberty. Again they were sport- 
ing gaily in the shady porch, or under the blos- 
soming trees ; sometimes rolling their hoops, and 
again drawing their babies in the little wagon. 
Often would Carrie come bounding in with 
" Here is a fower for you, mama." She, in 
common with most children, had a great fond- 
ness for flowers. And it was matter of regret to 
us, that we could not conveniently cultivate 
house-plants. For ourselves, our living flowers 
were sufficient, but we felt sorry to be without 
the influence that the culture of plants naturally 
has upon children. For those who are so situ- 
ated, that they can make use of such means to 
refine the taste, it is no small loss to be without 
them. If the philosophy of such pure and 
simple pleasures were better understood, no 
mother would consider her trouble in the rearing 
of plants or kindred occupations, as anything to 



116 THE BROKEN BUD. 



be compared with their tendency to refine and 
improve the heart, and promote the happiness of 
her children. They are committed to her cul- 
turing hand, and she is bound by the dearest 
obligations, to gather around them such influ- 
ences as shall tend to develope their intellectual 
and moral character, and that in the most beau- 
tiful harmony. 

The gift of a flower would at any time 
brighten Carrie's face. But to gather flowers 
herself, was a pleasure indeed. If anywhere 
around there was a bright dandelion, her brighter 
eye would spy it out, and she would fly into the 
house with, " Oh see this beauty, beauty dan- 
delion !" And the tulip and honeysuckle and 
rose, — how much innocent rapture did they 
bring her young heart ! Sometimes when the 
flowers were all gone, she would come in with 
spires of grass or withered leaves, as an apology 
for something green. 

Never was she happier than in this bright 
spring, when Nature was decking herself in her 
rainbow robes, and wreathing her brow with 
flowers. Alas! we knew not that before the 
autumnal blasts had faded these gay colors, and 



SYMPATHY, AND LOVE OF FLOWERS. 117 

the fair but transient flowers had withered and 
fallen, — our sweet bud of beauty, blighted by a 
colder breath, would droop and die. 

" Brief was her course, but starry bright, 
The linnet's song, the lily's white, 
The fountain's freshness, — these shall be 
Meet emblems of ' my child' * to me. 

* % % % % 

The dew-drop in the breeze of morn, 
Trembling and sparkling on the thorn, 
Falls to the ground, escapes the eye, 
Yet mounts on sunbeams to the sky. 

Thus in * her childhood's' dew she shone, 

Thus in the morn of beauty fell ; 
Even while we gazed, 'our child' was gone, 

Her life became invisible." 

Montgomery. 

* In this, and a few other extracts, a single word or phrase 
is changed to adapt it to the subject of this record ; which change 
is denoted by quotation marks. 



€jfj Whit 

" A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded." 

" Fair is thy face as break of dawn, 
When o'er its beauty, sleep is drawn 
Like a thin veil, tbat half conceals 
The light of soul, and half reveals. 
While thy hushed heart with visions wrought, 
Each trembling eye-lash moves with thought, 
And things we dream, but ne'er can speak, 
Like clouds, come floating o'er thy cheek, 
Such summer clouds as travel light, 
When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright,- 
Till thou awak'st, — then to thine eye 
Thy whole heart leaps in ecstasy. 

And lovely is that heart of thine, 
Or sure those eyes could never shine 
With such a wild, yet bashful glee, 
Gay, half o'ercome timidity ! 
Nature has breathed into thy face 
A spirit of unconscious grace ; 



THE VISIT. 119 



A spirit that lies never still, 
And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will. 
* % * * * 

Oh happy child ! thou canst not know 
What pleasures through my being flow 
From thy soft eyes, ' as thy deep' feeling 
From their blue lio'ht l is o'er me stealing." 

Wilson. 

While the children were in the midst of their 
innocent joys, an afflicted brother came to visit 
us. Carrie's whole heart seemed to go out in 
sympathy towards him. Even in the midst of 
her plays, she was continually saying, " poor 
uncle! poor uncle!" When he left us, she ac- 
companied him to an aunt's, whom he visited. 
While there, letters from home were sent her. 
On the outside of the one which her sister dic- 
tated was written, 

" This is Caddy's little letter, and there is 
wrote inside some pretty things, and cousin 
Mary will read them, and I saw mama seal it. 

" Little Caddy, 

"I am coming to aunt's some day, with 
mama and bubby. Bubby is going to come, 
and he can play out in the garden with you and 



120 THE BROKEN BUD. 

me. And we can have real good times, and 

have the doll and the picture-books and all the 

beautiful things. My dear little Caddy, Louise 

is sorry she was ever unkind to you, and she is 

asking you in this little letter to forgive her. 

Tell her that I want to see her, and that I love 

her. And tell her that she must be good, and 

do just what cousin and aunty say. And tell 

her that I want cousin H to be kind to you. 

And ask her if she's seen the little biddies, and 

if she's afraid of the big dog, because it won't 

bite her, and not to be afraid. Little Caddy 

won't be afraid. And tell her that I see the 

moon now and the sun and the clouds and the 

splendid blue sky. And the houses and trees 

look so pretty, I wish you were here to see them. 

And I saw a beautiful pink and green rainbow. 

Tell her that I wrote it, only mama wrote it, and 

that's just the same. And tell her that I send a 

kiss to her because she is my little darling sister. 

And I'll try to please her in everything she 

wants me to. 

" Your loving sister Louise." 

" My sweet Caddy, 

" I suppose you have by this time seen 



THE VISIT. 121 



all the wonders of fairy-land, — the garden and 
the barn and the cow and the chickens and the 
big dog and the swing and the doll. Are you 
going to learn some hymns to say to mama ? I 
send you a kiss by papa, and he will stop and 
give it to you now. And you must give him one 
with your rosy lips to bring back to mama. 

I hope you will say your prayers, and that you 
will pray in your own little words for yourself 
and all your dear friends. Remember what you 
have been taught about Grod and Jesus Christ, 
and pray that you may be a good girl, so that 
when you die you can go to heaven." 

It seems somewhat singular that in these the 
very last words which I ever addressed to my 
darling by letter, I should thus have alluded to 
her death. 

Of Carrie's conduct during this visit, her aunt 
thus speaks : — 

" I wish I could portray the sweet expression 
of confidence and quiet submission that your 
darling manifested while here. If I gave her 
playthings, she sat down quietly by my side and 
amused herself. Unlike most children, she was 
contented and happy with whatever was given 



122 THE BROKEN BUD. 



her, not looking around at this thing and that, 
and feeling that she should be happier if she 
could have something that another possessed. I 
think she might well have been my teacher with 
such a sweet spirit." # # 

" When her afflicted uncle wearied and sad 
would recline upon the sofa, she would leave her 
plays and hang around him, trying to soothe 
him by the most gentle endearments." In a let- 
ter which this uncle addressed to her aunt, after 
hearing of the dear child's death, he says, " The 
unexpected loss of their sweet little cherub Caro, 
served to give fresh poignancy to my own grief. 
Her tenderly affectionate ways when at your 
house, often reminded me of my own C, so 
much so that I could not refrain from tears." 

On Carrie's return with her father, she spent 

a day with some friends in B -. The lady 

of the house spoke warmly of her good behavior, 
saying that " in person, manners and character 
she seemed to be everything that was desirable 
in a daughter." With what enthusiasm did 
Carrie talk of her visit, and display the box of 
cups and saucers and the new doll which had 
been given her. But notwithstanding her petting 



THE VISIT. 123 



abroad, she returned with undiminished zest to 
her simple employments and pleasures at home. 
She wished indeed that her father would move 
down and live in her aunt's house. And she 
often talked of making another visit, and playing 
again in that " pretty garden." Such a visit 
she did not make, but though she was never 
again to be in her aunt's pleasant garden, yet we 
trust she is now dwelling in a more beautiful 
one, " where the flowers are not death's." 

" I saw a drop, whose trembling ray 
Was bosomed by a flower. — 
A sunbeam bore the gem away, 
But Fancy, in its airy sway, 
Pursued it to a brighter day 
Gilding a fairer bower." 

H. K. White. 



" I think of all thy winning ways, 
Thy frank and childish glee ; 
Thy arch sweet smiles, thy coy delays, 

Thy step so light and free ; 
Thy sparking glance and hasty run, 
Thy gladness when the task was done, 
And gained thy mother's knee ; 
Thy gay good-humored graceful ease, 
And all thy thousand arts to please. 

Where are they now ? And where oh where, 

The eager fond caress ? 
The blooming cheek so fresh and fair, 

The lips all sought to press ? 
The open brow and laughing eye, 

The heart that leaped so joyously ? 

Ah, had we loved them less !" 

Alaric A. Watts. 

The gentle reign of Spring was now almost 
ended, and a lovely sight it was to see her 



GUARDIAN ANGELS. 125 

" Lift the bright gems from her fast drooping head, 
And crown her sweet sister to reign in her stead." 

Carrie was again playing about in the garden 
and yard, and gathering nosegays of the dande- 
lions and clover blossoms that were sprinkled all 
over the grass. The children were anxious to do 
some planting for themselves ; so their father 
gave them a few beans and kernels of corn, with 
liberty to put them where they could find room. 
The place that they at last pitched upon after 
various changes, was directly in the trodden path 
under the shade of the large horse-chestnut now 
hanging full of rich blossoms. Carrie had con- 
siderable trouble with all her digging, in making 
her corn and bean stay under ground. And 
instead of being watered by the rains, they were 
so often washed away, that she was frequently 
running to her father with, " Papa will you give 
me another corn and bean for mine are gone." 
From the windows, we could see her working 
most diligently with her wonderful corn and 
bean, sometimes childlike, digging them up to 
see if they had begun to grow, and again cover- 
ing them over with fresh earth and watering 
them. If she started to go out of doors, in un- 



126 THE BROKEN BUD. 



pleasant weather, and I said, " I would not go 
now Carrie," she would look up so earnestly and 
ask, " Can't I just see to my corn and bean?" 
She was quite in raptures one day, when her 
father twisted large leaves, so as to make water- 
ing-pots for her and her sister. Each would 
hold about half a dozen drops, and with this and 
a dish of water, she worked away for a long time, 
watering her corn and bean most faithfully. At 
last her father proposed a better place for her 
seeds, where they sprung up and grew to be a 
sad memorial of her, when she had passed forever 
away. 

The peculiar graces of childhood seemed to be 
now rapidly developing in our dear child. So 
ardent were her emotions and so glowing her 
expressions, that she was often called " the little 
enthusiast." She had an unusual degree of that 
naturally poetic feeling which young children 
often manifest. 

Her impulsive disposition sometimes led her 
astray, and she would in haste do or say some- 
thing very unlike her gentle self. Her quick 
sympathies inclined her to take the part of one 
whom she saw suffering, even when such sym- 



GUARDIAN ANGELS. 127 

pathy was misdirected. Her father on one occa- 
sion, having rebuked her sister for some offence, 
Carrie said to her, " ain't papa naughty ?" Her 
father's reproof subdued her at once, and brought 
out her unaffected "I am solly" and in a mo- 
ment, looking up in his face with a mingled ex- 
pression of affection and archness, she said "I 
lud du." If she was ever betrayed into disobe- 
dience and I fe.lt obliged to correct her, it was a 
thrice painful duty. Her yielding spirit, and 
the docility with which she submitted to punish- 
ment the very few times in which it was re- 
sorted to, almost took from me my power of in- 
flicting it. Ah ! how the thought thrills a 
mother, that from ignorance or hastiness of spirit 
she may sometimes have wronged her departed 
child ! 

Often when I took my darling on my knee, and 
looked into " the summer heaven of her clear 
eyes," have I almost longed to place my hand 
upon time's rapid wheels, lest the future should 
brittg with it some sad change. Yet I thought not 
of her death, but only dreaded aught that might 
damp her enthusiasm or sadden her heart or cast 
the shadow of distrust over her confiding spirit. 



128 THE BROKEN BUD. 



How full of consolation to the mother in such 
hours of sad misgiving, is the thought that the 
Angel of the Covenant has his watchful eye 
upon her dear ones, and his everlasting arms 
around them. What a peculiar regard did 
our Saviour manifest for little children, when 
notwithstanding the multitudes that thronged 
him, and the weight of a perishing world which 
pressed upon him, he yet took them in his arms 
and blessed them, uttering that assurance so 
precious to the parental heart, " Of such is the 
kingdom of heaven." Is not all childhood hal- 
lowed by this act of infinite tenderness and love ? 

And is it not more than the poet's dream, that 

" Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep ?" 

Are we not assured in Scripture that there are 
spirits ministering among us, invisibly it is 
true, but none the less really soothing our sor- 
rows reproving what is wrong and aiding us in 
our struggles ? And resulting from this sweet 
assurance of (rod's word, what more natural 
than the belief in individual guardian an- 
gels ? Indeed have we not Scripture evidence 



GUARDIAN ANGELS. 129 

to this very point ? We know that such a be- 
lief was prevalent among the Jews, and with 
this knowledge, may we not regard as confirma- 
tory of such a belief, these words of Jesus, 
" Take heed that ye despise not one of these 
little ones, for I say unto you, that in heaven 
their angels do always behold the face of my 
Father, which is in heaven." Oh yes ! there is 
comfort for the anxious mother ! It is easy to 
believe that He who thus distinguished children, 
and who showed his tender concern for them in 
his direction to Peter, " Feed my lambs,"- — it is 
easy to believe that he would also give it in 
charge to his ministering spirits to watch over 
these lambs of his flock, — that he would appoint 
unto them guardian angels. And may we not 
suppose that this ministration of mercy is given 
to those who were once most intimately con- 
nected with the objects of it ? 

" It is a beautiful belief 

That ever round our head 
Are hovering on viewless wings, 
The spirits of the dead." 

"What more natural than that those who have 

9 



130 THE BROKEN BUD. 

known and loved and left us, should be the ones 
chosen to watch over and guide and bless us ? 
What better accords with the deepest yearnings 
of the human spirit ? We cannot believe that 
those whose hearts so lately beat in unison with 
our own, whose very being seemed so identified 
with our being, that in their departure we feel 
as if a part of ourselves had gone to the spir- 
it-land ; — we cannot believe that by becoming 
freed from their earthly encumbrance, they have 
lost all interest in their earthly friends, that 
the waters of Lethe have been poured over 
their souls, quenching every tender recollection, 
— that they have ceased to love us. Nay, 
every instinct of our nature, — everything that 
we can know and conjecture of God's dealings, 
— even the testimony of Scripture itself, forbids 
such a supposition. 

But if their interest still remains, can we sup- 
pose them kept in ignorance of our concerns ? 
Have they not a common sympathy with Christ 
in all that relates to the perishing world for 
which He gave himself? And have they not a 
special sympathy, with the dear ones with whom 
they so lately communed in the flesh ? 



GUARDIAN ANGELS. 131 



If our Saviour, whose great atoning work 
might have been completed in the few days of 
his trial and his crucifixion, — if He deemed it 
necessary to pass thirty weary years upon the 
earth, meeting our temptations, bearing our bur- 
dens, enduring our sorrows, and thus closely in- 
terlinking himself in the brotherhood of man, — 
if He did this that we might have " an High 
Priest" able "to be touched with the feeling of 
our infirmities," and to give us that sympathy 
which can be felt only by one who has had hu- 
man experience ; — can we believe that He would 
employ to minister to man, angels who have 
never sinned and never suffered, and who have 
therefore no common consciousness with us,— • 
and not also the ransomed ones who have lived 
the human life, and died the human death, and 
borne with them over the grave, the experiences, 
the affections and the memories of humanity ? 
Is it irrational, — is it unscriptural to conclude 
that to such who as fellow-pilgrims have smiled 
and wept with us, who have shared in our infir- 
mities and our temptations, in our conflicts and 
our victories, — between whom and ourselves the 
strong bond of love was one over which Death 



132 THE BROKEN BUD, 



himself could not triumph, but which he has only 
purified and made eternal ; — may we not con- 
clude that to such it is given with gentle minis- 
trations to hover on unseen pinions around us, 
bending over our pillows, watching our steps, 
and by a thousand invisible, but felt influences, 
winning us to truth, to duty, and to (rod ? Nay, 
have not we the witness to this in our own 
bosoms ? Have not our perturbed spirits been 
suddenly quieted and soothed, and as it were, 
bathed in celestial light, and made to breathe 
the very atmosphere of heaven ; and this accom- 
panied by a distinct impression of some angel- 
friend, and a half-consciousness of the viewless 
presence of that friend ? 

u Yes, my heart has revealings of thee and thy home 

In many a token and sign ; 
I never look up with a vow to the sky, 

But a light like thy beauty is there ; 
And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply, 

When I pour out my spirit in prayer." 

We cannot doubt that the air is filled with 
bright messengers, ascending and descending on 
their mission of love. And heaven, and heaven's 



GUARDIAN ANGELS. 133 

sweet melodies may be nearer to us than we in 
our earthliness suppose. 

" There's not the smallest orb which we behold 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims ; 
Such harmony is in immortal souls ! 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." 

Oh, could the spirit but look out through its 
mortal vestment, could the gates of the senses 
be shut, and the inward eye be opened, what a 
bright cloud of witnesses might we not find 
moving softly among us, cheering the disheart- 
ened, comforting the mourner, opening heaven 
to the dying, and bearing the freed soul within 
its everlasting doors ! And could the spirit but 
listen, what celestial music might not burst upon 
us in the still watches of the night ! Bat our 
souls are caged and fettered, and the commun- 
ings that we consciously have with the spirit- 
world are but occasional and very imperfect. 
Yet may they not be sufficient to confirm the 
evidence gathered from other sources, that there 
are hovering about our path unseen friends, 



134 THE BROKEN BUD. 



sympathizing in our struggles, rejoicing in our 
conquests, and blessing us with their kindly in- 
fluences ? 

How delightful to feel that angelic beings are 
ever around our little ones with gentle whisper- 
ings to good ! And still more soothing is it to 
believe that those who are among us with such 
blessed ministrations, are the very ones from the 
whole universe of created intelligences, whom 
our hearts would choose for such a work, — the 
dear spirits whose cast-off garments we have 
entrusted to the grave, — whose departure we 
have bitterly mourned. But have they depart- 
ed ? Are they not with us still ? 

" Mother, has the dove that nestled 

Lovingly upon thy breast, 
Folded up its little pinion, 

And in darkness gone to rest ? 
Nay ; the grave is dark and dreary, 

But the lost one is not there ; 
Hear'st thou not its gentle whisper 

Floating on the ambient air ? 

It is near thee, gentle mother, 
Near thee at the evening hour ; 



GUARDIAN ANGELS. 135 

Its soft kiss is in the zephyr, 

It looks up from every flower. 
And when night's dark shadows fleeing, 

Low thou bendest thee in prayer, 
And thy heart feels nearest heaven, 

Then thy angel-child is there. 

* % # # % 

Oh ! the friends, the friends we've cherished, 

How we weep to see them die, 
All unthinking they're the angels 

That will guide us to the sky." 

Fanny Forester. 



Coming events cast their shadows before." 



Campbell. 



" And the strange inborn sense of coming ill 
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast 

In a low tone, which naught can drown or still, 
Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest ; 

Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall ? 

"Why shakes the spirit thus ? — 'tis mystery all ! 

Darkly we move — we press upon the brink, 
Haplp of viewless worlds, and know it not ; 

Yes ! it may be, that nearer than we think 

Are those whom death has parted from our lot ! 

Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made, — 

Let us walk humbly on, but undismayed ! 

Humbly — for knowledge strives in vain to feel 
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind ; 

Yet undismayed, — for do they not reveal 

The immortal being with our dust entwined ? 



PREMONITIONS. 137 



So let us deem, and e'en the tears they wake 
Shall then be blest for that high nature's sake." 

Mrs. Hemans. 

" Over the spirit there comes a feeling of wonder and 

sadness, — 
Strange forebodings of ill, unseen, and that cannot be 

compassed. 
As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the 

prairies, 
Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking 

mimosa, 
So at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of 

evil, 
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has 

attained it." 



H. W. Longfellow. 

Among the mysteries of the spirit, perhaps 
none are more strangely thrilling than our occa- 
sional glimpses of some event, veiled by the cur- 
tain of futurity. And so very slight are these 
momentary glimpses, that we should almost feel 
as if mistaken, were it not for the otherwise 
inexplicable impression left upon the mind. It 
is true that we often deceive ourselves, — that 
from disease or excessive anxiety, the heart, in 
its many imaginings, may conjecture future 



calamities which do not come upon us. But 
that Grod does sometimes allow coming events to 
be foreshadowed, cannot be doubted. In the 
language of De Foe, " That such hints and no- 
tices are sometimes given us, I believe few 
that have made any observations of things will 
deny. That they are certain discoveries of an 
invisible converse and a world of spirits, we 
cannot doubt, and why should we not suppose 
that they are from a friendly agent, and that 
they are given for our good." And because 
the mode of communication is incomprehensi- 
ble, shall we therefore deny the fact of such 
communications ? It may be easier than we 
suppose for invisible beings to " strike the elec- 
tric chain wherewith we're darkly bound," yet 
without discussing the practicability or the man- 
ner of such revelations, it is enough to refer to 
the accredited testimony of those in whose his- 
tory are recorded just such " marvels of the 
mind ;" and to the consciousness of many who 
from their own experience, can witness to this 
mysterious fact ; — who have had unaccountable 
premonitions of some future event, which were 
verified by the reality. 



PREMONITIONS. 



139 



Certainly I could not otherwise account for 
my strong impression not two months before our 
child's sickness, of some afflictive death about 
to occur in our own house-hold. And it was 
not till my mind was occupied by the incidents 
of journeying and visiting, that this impression 
was gradually removed. 

Early in the morning of a pleasant day, we 
started on a contemplated journey, arriving at 
our place of destination towards night. We 
were soon introduced into a quiet retreat, and 
were rejoiced once more to breathe pure country 
air, and to look upon green fields. The children 
were in ecstasies at everything they saw, and 
before they laid their tired heads on their pillow, 
were introduced to numerous little turkeys and 
chickens and to two great dogs whose acquain- 
tance they were yet to make. 

How delightful it was to be waked the next 
morning by the cheerful sounds in the yard 
below. There was the crowing of the cock, the 
matins of the birds, the bleating of the lambs, 
the lowing of the cattle, the watch-dog's bark, 
and all the insect music that blended without 
discord in this morning concert. And when we 



140 THE BROKEN BUD. 



looked from our window what an enchanting 
scene was spread out before us ! There was the 
sunny farm-yard with its various inmates all 
helping to swell the chorus. And around was an 
undulating country, diversified with little wooded 
hills and sunny slopes, while here and there we 
caught sight of a silvery brook, winding its way 
along and singing as it went. In the distance 
was a stone arch raised over the brook, giving a 
picturesque effect to the unpoetic railroad. The 
morning air was pure, and balmy was the breath 
of the flowers, opening their starry eyes to the 
day, or holding up to the sun their tiny cups 
filled with bright pearls. 

With no dream that this is a world of sorrow, 
Carrie that morning opened her eyes. She had 
not words to express her happiness, as she ran 
everywhere, and looked at everything, asking 
questions of every one. What a pleasure was it 
to her to see the butter churning, and to taste 
the sweet fresh butter ! And she was greatly 
pleased to hear about the bees, which had taken 
refuge in the walls of the house, and paid their 
rent in honey and the honey-comb. Day after 
day would she and her sister play till the sun 



PREMONITIONS. 141 



went to his golden couch, when they would seek 
their little beds, and soon fall into quiet slumber. 

"There's a gladness in i sweet childhood's voice,' and its 

song mid summer bowers, 
Where the sun is on his golden cars, and the dew upon 

the flowers. 
It comes like our own voices back from a past and happy 

scene, 
So fair, that nothing after is so fair as what has been. 

There's a gladness in 'sweet childhood's 'sleep, and its calm, 

unbroken rest, 
With the dew of blessing on its head, from the fountain 

in its breast ; 
There's nothing in our after years of weariness like this, 
Till when the heart is young again in its Sabbath year of 

bliss." 



€jr* Xui Visits. 



" Sweet thoughts are mirrored in her face. 
And every motion is a grace." 



u I had a little ' daughter' once, 
And she was wondrous fair ; 
Like twined links of the shining gold 
Was the waving of her hair. 

Her face was like a day in June 

When all is sweet and still, 
And the shadows of the summer clouds 

Creep softly o'er the hill. 

Oh my ' daughter's' voice, I hear it yet, — 

It comes upon mine ear 
Like the singing of a joyous bird 

When the summer months are near. 

Like flowers, she seemed to cause no toil, 
To give no pain or care, 



THE LAST VISITS. 143 

But to bask and bloom in the light of day, 
In the warm and sunny air. 

And oh ! like them, as they come in Spring, 

And with Summer's fate decay, 
She passed with the sun's last parting breath 

From life's rough path away." 

One morning when the children were playing 
out in the front yard, Carrie suddenly set up a 
glad shout, and bounded into the room exclaim- 
ing, " papa, papa, papa's come." She had 
caught a glimpse of him in the road, and with- 
out stopping to speak to him, she must hasten in 
to tell the glad news. 

Not many days before this, a strange, twitter- 
ing noise had been heard in our room. On re- 
moving the fire-board, we found on the hearth a 
small nest holding three young swallows. A 
poor swallow not so aspiring as David's had 
chosen to build in a chimney, and the nest had 
fallen down. We tried to feed the little ones, 
the children looking on with great interest, but 
as we could not succeed the nest was laid back 
upon the hearth containing something which 
we hoped they would contrive to eat. They 



144 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



kept up an occasional chirping, and every day- 
food was put into their nest. At length, not 
having heard their noise for some hours, I looked 
to see what was the matter. There were the 
poor wee things all dead with their feet clinging 
to the sides of the nest. It had been touching 
to think of the mother-bird's grief on returning 
with food to her young, at finding them gone, 
nest and all. I almost felt as if some unerring 
impulse would lead her to descend the chimney, 
but nature had only given her the instincts neces- 
sary for common emergencies. And yet how 
many, and how beautiful are these ! And who 
might not learn from them lessons of trustfulness 
and love ? But to return to our n swallows ; it 
seemed so sad that they should all have starved 
to death, and that almost before our eyes. Al- 
together, and happening as it did in our room, 
it came over me like something ominous. 
" Couldn't Jesus make them alive ?" asked. Car- 
rie in the midst of her tears. " And will you, 
papa, look in our chimney when we get home 
and see if there are any little swallows there ?" 
The parting hour had now arrived, but the 
pleasant weather and childish prattle soon dis- 



THE LAST VISITS. 145 

pelled the transient sadness it occasioned. On 
our way home we made a little visit at the 
children's grandfather's. No shadow lay upon 
our path as we stopped at the well-known gate, 
where Carrie bounded in, putting up her lips to 
kiss her friends even before she had reached 
them. There she and her sister enjoyed their 
last plays together in her earliest home. They 
swung in the barn, they picked flowers, they 
drew their brother in the little wagon, and — 
what did they not do ? 

The last two or three days of our visit, Carrie 
was quite unwell and we feared a serious sick- 
ness. 

" Sweet one ! when fondly on my breast 

I hushed thee to thy soft repose, 
And watched the wing of slumber rest 

On violet eye, and cheek of rose — 
While gazing on thy trusting eye, 
How could I deem that thou wouldst die ? 

That thou wouldst die, and from our bower 
Withdraw the sunshine thou hadst shed, 

While grief should bid her purple flower 
Spring up where'er our footsteps tread ; 

And hopes and dreams, once green and high, 

Like autumn leaves should lowly lie !" 
10 



totjfttlntaa. 



" Time hath not power to bear away 
Thine image from the heart, 
No scenes that mark life's onward way 
Can bid it hence depart. 1 ' 



" Thou wert a vision of delight, 
To bless us given ; 
Beauty embodied to our sight, 

A type of heaven : 
So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
Even less thine own self, than a part 
Of mine and of thy ' father's' heart." 

D. M. Moir. 

It was a happy month, — the last month of 
our dear child's bloom. No one discerned the 
dark form that every moment approached nearer 
and nearer casting a deep shadow far around 
him. 

How the memory lingers about those days of 
rosy health ! Not a fear for our blooming Carrie 



disturbed our peace. And in her character as it 
fast unfolded we read bright promise for the 
future. 

But among all her lovely traits, none more re- 
joiced our hearts than her perfect truthfulness. 
Her countenance from babyhood was peculiarly 
open, so that her father had been wont to call 
her his " honest daughter. 5 ' The idea of shield- 
ing herself from punishment by falsehood, seemed 
never to have entered her mind. And even if 
tempted to this by another, her love of the truth 
was sufficient, young as she was, to triumph 
over the temptation. And while she was thus 
truthful herself, she never thought of suspecting 
the veracity of others. 

Confidingness seems to be a characteristic of 
childhood. How sad that this trust should ever 
be betrayed ! But are there not mothers who 
for their right hand would not injure their child, 
yet who by their own example instil into the 
young heart a lying spirit ? If a mother sets 
for herself a low standard in respect to the 
truth, her chilrden will not be the last to perceive 
it. And if they make the discovery that she is 
guilty of concealment, or equivocation, or exag- 



148 THE BROKEN BUD. 

geration, or misrepresentation, they will be very 
likely soon to practise it themselves. 

A mother should carefully guard her child 
against everything which would injure his integ- 
rity, or weaken his sense of the truth. Let her 
teach him that falsehood will degrade him in his 
own eyes, as well as in those of others ; and 
will expose him to the displeasure of a lie- 
hating (rod. Let her cultivate in him a high- 
minded rectitude — a nice sense of the truth and 
a sincere love for it. And she should begin her 
lessons in infancy, remembering that 

"The seeds of first instructions are dropped into the 
deepest furrows." 

Let her own example be a consistent and con- 
stant teacher to her children. A mother should 
be cautious how she promises or threatens, but 
her word having passed she ought sacredly to 
regard it. Let not a breath of falsehood tarnish 
the young spirit. Teach thy child to be true 
whatever may betide, — under all circumstances 
to dread a lie more than any possible conse- 
quence of speaking the truth. 

" Let reverential care 
Shield its first bloom from all unholy air." 



TRUTHFULNESS. 149 



There is nothing more lovely than an open, in- 
genuous character, that scorns for any purpose, 
to tell or act a lie, that under all circum- 
stances and in all places dares to be true to 
itself and true to others. This ingenuousness is 
written on the countenance, and a countenance 
radiant with truth's holy light is beautiful in- 
deed. Such was the character written legibly 
upon our sweet Carrie's face. 

" Look on rue with thy cloudless eyes, 
Truth in their dark transparence lies ; 
Their sweetness gives me back the tears, 
And the free trust of early years, 
My gentle child I 
* * * * * 

Oh ! heaven is with thee in thy dreams, 
Its light by day around thee gleams ; 
Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies ; 
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, 
My gentle child !" 

Mrs. Hemans. 



^artirttlar Jhraittisnnrm 



u Her tuneful tones so full of mirth 
Delight the ear no more ; 

Yet still the thrilling echo lives, 
And many a lisping word 

Is treasured in affection's heart, 
By grieving memory stirred." 



Mrs. Sigourney. 



" Thou wert so like a form of light, 

That Heaven benignly called thee hence, 

Ere yet the world could breathe one blight 
O'er thy sweet innocence : 

And thou that brighter home to bless, 
Art passed with all thy loveliness ! 

Oh ! had'st thou still on earth remained, 

Vision of beauty ! fair as brief! 
How soon thy brightness had been stained 

With passion or with grief ! 

Now not a sullying breath can rise 

To dim thy glory in the skies." 

Mrs. Hemans. 



PARTICULAR REMINISCENCES. 151 

Carrie delighted to have us read or tell her 
stories. But in nothing did she take more pleas- 
ure than in religious instruction. And it has 
been a matter of deep regret and self-reproach 
that feeble health, and company, and cares in- 
terrupted the regular hours for instruction during 
the last few months of the dear child's life. Had 
I but known as the days flew rapidly by, that 
with them were passing away my last opportuni- 
ties for sowing good seed in that tender heart, 
what would not I have gladly sacrificed rather 
than this precious privilege ? 

Carrie manifested much interest in family 
worship, especially in the singing, in which her 
sweet voice was wont to join. One day she 
begged us to sing, " The bellows are roaring, and 
the windows are blowing." After some inquiry, 
we found that she referred to the hymn, 

" Though hard the winds are blowing, 
And loud the billows roar." 

She anticipated the Sabbath with pleasure, as 
she felt sure of hearing more reading then than 
on other days. The holy morning was some- 
times ushered in by her exclamation, "Oh I am 



152 THE BROKEN BUD. 



so glad it is Sabbath day." She also loved to go 
to church, and was noticed by others as par- 
ticularly reverential in her deportment there. 

She was very fond of Bible stories, and listened 
with a mingled expression of wonder and delight 
to the account of Lazarus, whom Christ raised 
from the dead. At first she could hardly believe 
the glad news, but as she came to realize it joy 
lighted up her whole face. 

She was much affected by the story of Jesus. 
On listening to the narration of his death, a glow 
of indignation spread over her speaking counte- 
nance, which soon gave place to an expression of 
deep sympathy and sorrow, while the words 
" poor Jesus, poor Jesus," escaped her lips. As 
she heard how the angels sat in the sepuloiire, 
" wasn't (rod good to send the angels ?" And as 
she listened farther — how Mary went to the 
sepulchre, and heard her own name called so 
tenderly, " Mary," and then, knowing the voice 
turned and saw her Saviour, — as the truth 
flashed upon the dear child that Jesus was 
really alive again, her face became perfectly 
radiant, while a shout of delight burst from her. 
She laughed and clapped her little hands saying, 



PARTICULAR REMINISCENCES. 153 

"I am so glad, I am so gladP I think she 
added, " kind, kind Jesus to speak so to Maey." 
I can see her now, her earnest eyes looking in- 
tently into mine, while emotions every moment 
varying flitted over her ingenuous face. If I do 
not mistake, she presently broke out with a 
spontaneous gush of feeling, " I would have held 
him with both my arms around him." From 
this time, she appeared to cherish a spontaneous 
love and gratitude to the " dear Jesus," as she 
was wont to call him. 

It was indeed a grateful work to cast seed 
upon such a willing soil. And although we were 
not permitted to watch the ripening of the 
fruit, — although thy spring-time dear child was 
short, 

" Yet not in vain thy life ! Thou hast not sown, 
Yet the rich harvest reapest as thine own, 
Thou hast not fought, but thou hast won the prize, 
Hast never borne the cross, yet gained the skies." 

Carrie was always ready to repeat her prayers, 
and liked also to pray in her own words. It is 
pleasant to think of her as kneeling beside us, 
her head bowed and her eyes closed, while her 



little hands were meekly folded reverently to 
repeat her prayers. However full of play she 
never seemed ruffled when the time came, and I 
have lio recollection of her hurrying carelessly 
through them. 

I had read to the children some account of 
heaven, in which it was compared to a beautiful 
garden. After this, it was one of her petitions, 
" Make me a good girl, so that when I die I can 
go to that pretty garden." Among other passages 
of Scripture requiring obedience to parents, I had 
repeated this, " The eye that mocketh at his 
father, and despiseth his mother, the ravens of 
the valley shall pluck it out, and the young 
eagles shall eat it." This made a deep impres- 
sion, and she added another petition. " Oh Grod, 
make me a good girl, so that when I die I can go 
to that pretty garden, and don't let me be a 
naughty girl and have the bird pick out my 
eyes." 

She and her sister had many talks about death, 
but they seemed to originate with her. It has 
been a matter of touching interest to look back 
to the last few months of her life, and recall the 
many things that she said about death, although 



she never saw the face of the dead. There 
seemed to be an invisible influence silently lead- 
ing her thoughts to this mysterious theme, so 
that others as well as ourselves were surprised 
at her remarks. In the midst of her amusements 
while holding some plaything in her hand she 
would suddenly break out, " when I die, titter, 
(sister) you shall have this." And again, " when 
I die Alick shall have that." And yet to look 
upon her bounding form and her bright Hebe- 
face, scarcely any one would have thought of 
death. It was affecting to know that such 
thoughts and feelings were busy in that youth- 
ful heart, — to hear such words from those 
young lips ; — but with what inexpressible ten- 
derness do they now come to us from her silent 
grave ! 

The dear child would sometimes plan the 
order in which she supposed we were to die. 
One day she said, " Mama, if you die first, I 
shall want to die before papa, because I shouldn't 
want to be left all alone." And afterwards, 
looking up with great earnestness, " Mama, if 
you and Louise and Alick were to die first, 
couldn't papa and I die together, both of us ?" 



156 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Sweet one ! we dreamed not that her little feet 
were first to tread the dark way. 

One day she came running in out of breath 
evidently greatly excited. As soon as she could 
speak she told her pitiful tale, and with a look 
of such sincere distress that we could not help 
giving her our sympathy. It seems that she and 
her sister had found out of doors a dead kitten 
that had been thrown away. " Wasn't it too 
bad, mama, to do so to the poor kitten ? I see 
tears in its eyes, and I want papa to take it up, 
and put some clothes on it, and bury it in the 
burying-ground, just as other people dud, say 
will you dear papa ?" Nothing would pacify 
her till her father promised that the poor kitten 
should have decent burial. Suddenly a thought 
brightened up her face. " Mama, couldn't Jesus 
make the kitten alive as he did that man ?" 
Afterwards, still pondering upon the matter, 
" "Won't it rise again as Jesus did ?" 

After hearing of heaven as a garden, she 
talked much of " the pretty garden." One day 
she broke out, " Can I kiss you in that garden, 
because I shall want to kiss you in the garden ?" 
Soon after I heard her ask her sister, " Can I 



PARTICUAAR REMINISCENCES. 157 

laugh in the garden ?" In a very wise manner 
Louise replied, " no, you can't laugh, but you 
can smile there." Receiving this answer with 
childlike simplicity, she responded, " Yes, I can 
mile there." And seeing me, " Mama, I can 
mile in the garden." 

At another time she said, " When I die I shall 
have on my little bonnet and pelisse, and go up 
the steps into that pretty garden." 

Ah, " soon thy little feet have trod 
The skyward path, the seraph's road, 
That led thee up from man to God. 

Farewell, then — for a while, farewell, 

Pride of my heart ! 
It cannot be that long we dwell 

Thus torn apart ; 
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee, 
And dark howe'er life's night may be, 
Beyond the grave, I'll meet with thee, 
'My darling child I'" 



tui Dap nf Mtnltl). 



u Her memory still within my mind 
Retains its sweetest power ; 
It is the perfume left behind 
That whispers of the flower." 



Mrs. Welby. 



" Full was thy lot of blessing, 

To charm her cradle hours, — 
To touch her sparkling fount of thought, 

And breathe her breath of flowers, — 
And take the daily lesson 

From the smile that breathed so free, 
Of what in holier, brighter realms, 

The pure in heart must be. 

No more thy twilight musing 

May with her image shine, 
When in that lonely hour of love, 

She laid her cheek to thine. 
So still and so confiding, 

That cherished ' child' would be, 
So like a sinless guest from heaven, 

And yet a part of thee." 

Mrs. Sigourney. 



LAST DAYS OF HEALTH. 159 

It was one of Carrie's quiet pleasures to stand 
at the window, and watch for those whom she 
knew as they passed. If she caught a glimpse 
of our physician going by, she would call out 

with great animation, " my Dr. my Dr. 

." And when he came in, she would put 

his large hat on her little head, and taking his 
cane in her hand would suddenly appear before 
him with a gleeful laugh, pleased enough if he 
entered into her frolic. The last such scene 
was only two or three weeks before her final 
sickness. 

" I have three fathers," said Carrie one day, 
" my papa, and my grandpapa, and my Father 
in heaven." She loved her father and her grand- 
father with all the warmth of her young heart, 
and they loved her most tenderly, but the Father 
who loved her with an infinite love was about to 
take her to himself. Her bright summer-day 
was now drawing to a close. But a few more 
sunny hours and we were to see the deepening 
shades of twilight. She was to be taken home 

" Ere the bitter cup she tasted 

Which the hand of care doth bring — 



Ere the glittering pearls were wasted, 
From glad childhood's fairy string — 

Ere one chain of hope had rusted, 
Ere one wreath of joy was dead." 

In the afternoon of Carrie's last Sabbath of 
health, she and her sister repeated their hymns 
and catechism, and then we had some pleasant 
talk with them. I recollect being so struck 
with the expression of her countenance, that I 
silently changed her position, that her father too 
might look upon her speaking face. 

On a bright "Wednesday morning, we were 
expecting friends to spend the day. As I was 
around in the rooms seeing that everything was 
in order, my Carrie in her simple white frock 
followed me everywhere. As I looked upon her 
open countenance, and into her loving eyes, there 
was too satisfied a feeling at my heart. No ! it 
is not for a mother to exult in the beautv and 
loveliness of her cherished blossom. It may 
wither almost beneath her gaze. Instead of thus 
exulting, how would my heart have sunk within 
me could I have looked forward but four short 
weeks ! We were again on a bright Wednesday 
morning, expecting company, but for what? 



LAST DAYS OF HEALTH. 161 

The joy of my heart, — the delight of my eyes, 
was, as now, clad in white, but alas ! — it was 
her burial shroud. Those little busy hands lay 
folded meekly upon her bosom, which never again 
would throb with sorrow or with joy. It was 
her funeral day. 

But the dream of such a future clouded not 
our present sunshine. "When our friends came, 
no one was more glad to meet them than Carrie, 
and a joyous day it was to her. 

The next day she was as full of life as ever. 
The children had the rocking-horse in the front 
hall, and decorated him with leaves and flowers 
as for a gala day, little thinking that she was 
never again to ride on Pony Pomp. The day 
following, being rainy, they played in the house 
all day. Carrie arranged my basket, and wound 
thread upon spools, which still lie in the drawer — 
her last work. Ah ! why does memory so linger 
about that Friday ? — It was her last day of 
health. Never, never again were we to listen to 
her gladsome laugh. 

" Her thousand winning ways, alas ! 
Shall charm this heart no more. 
11 



162 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



Ah ! could'st thou not have lingered, love, 

To cheer me yet awhile, 
Life's scenes to bless and brighten still 

With thy sweet, radiant smile ?" 

The full cup was sparkling at our lips, and 
we felt secure, not seeing the shadowy hand ex- 
tended to dash it to the ground. 

After supper I undressed my darling, and for 
the last time, she knelt by my side folding her 
little hands to pray. As I kissed her good night, 
and looked back upon my two daughters lying 
lovingly together ah ! why did not something 
whisper — it is the last time ? Alas ! her sun is 
setting — -her day is past. 

" Those little hands will ne'er essay 

To ply the mimic task again, 
Well pleased, forgetting mirth and play, 

A mother's promised kiss to gain. 
Those lips will never more repeat 

The welcome lesson, conned with care ; 
Or breathe at even, in accents sweet, 

To heaven the well-remembered prayer." 

But quietly we sought our pillows, all undream- 
ing of the blight that even then had touched our 



LAST DAYS OF HEALTH. 163 

bud of bliss. How we linger on those hours ! — 
but lingering thus will not recall the past. And 
would we, if we could, — would we bring from 
her sweet home above our cherub daughter ? 
Would we give her back life's bitter cup to drain, 
— again to go through the dark valley ? 

" She did but float a little way 
Adown the stream of time, 
With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, 
Listening their fairy chime ; 
Her slender sail 
Ne'er felt the gale ; 
She did but float a little way, 

And putting to the shore, 
While yet 'twas early day, 
Went calmly on her way, 

To dwell with us no more. 
No jarring did she feel, 
No grating on her vessel's keel ; 
A strip of silver sand 
Mingled the waters with the land, 
Where she was seen no mover 



" "Within her downy cradle there lay a little child, 
And a group of hovering angels unseen upon her smiled ; 
A strife arose among them, a loving, holy strife, 
Which should shed the richest blessing upon the new- 
born life. 

One breathed upon her features, and the babe in beauty 

grew, 
With a cheek like morning's blushes, and an eye of azure 

hue ; 
Till every one who saw her was thankful for the sight 
Of a face so sweet and radiant with ever fresh delight. 

Another gave her accents, and a voice as musical 

As a spring-bird's joyous carol, or a rippling streamlet's 

fall ; 
Till all who heard her laughing, or her words of childish 

grace, 
Loved as much to listen to her as to look upon her face. 



FIRST DAYS OF SICKNESS. 165 

Another brought from heaven a clear and gentle mind, 
And within the lovely casket, a precious gem enshrined ; 
Till all who knew her, wondered that God should be so 

good, 
As to bless with such a spirit our desert world and rude. 

Thus did she grow in beauty, in melody and truth, 
The budding of her childhood just opening into youth ; 
And to our hearts yet dearer every moment than before, 
She became, though we thought fondly, heart could not 
love her more. 

Then outspake another angel, nobler, brighter than the 

rest, 
As with strong arm, but tender, he caught her to his 

breast ; 
1 Ye have made her all too lovely for a child of mortal 

race, 
But no shade of human sorrow shall darken o'er her 

face. 

Ye have tuned to gladness only the accents of her 

tongue, 
And no wail of human anguish shall from her lips be 

wrung ; 
Nor shall the soul that shineth so purely from within 
Her form of earth-born frailty, ever know the taint of sin. 



166 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



Lulled in my faithful bosom, I will bear her far away, 
Where there is no sin nor anguish, nor sorrow nor decay, 
And mine a gift more glorious than all your gifts shall 

be, — 
Lo ! I crown her happy spirit with immortality.' 

Then on his heart, our darling yielded up her gentle breath, 
For the stronger, brighter angel who loved her best was 
Death." 

G. W. Bethune. 

How unconsciously do we sometimes tread 
upon the brink of a precipice ! When dear 
Carrie awaked in the night and complained of 
pain, her father took her from her little bed and 
laid her in ours. Oh, had I but known that I 
was never again to sleep by my darling's side, 
how should I have held her to my heart all that 
long night ! In the morning I dressed her sup- 
posing she would be playing in the course of the 
day, little thinking that it was the last time I 
should ever dress my sweet Carrie. 

Our physician called to see her ; but what a 
change had passed over the dear child ! She was 
no longer the bright, glad Carrie, who had so 
gaily bounded to meet him. With a drooping 



FIRST DAYS OF SICKNESS. 167 

head she looked earnestly at him, as if asking 
for relief. 

On the Sabbath, as she lay in her crib, she 
held her little books and tried to turn over the 
leaves. It was only a week before, that she had 
stood hand in hand with her sister and said her 
hymns. This evening, when Louise had repeated 
her prayers, Carrie turned to her father and in a 
sorrowful tone, said, " I am too sick to say that 
now." " Shall I repeat your prayers for you?" 
" Yes, papa." 

The dear child's pain was at times extreme, 
and she had frequent turns of languor and faint- 
ness, but through the whole was gentle and 
patient. She spoke but little, but what she did 
say, showed that her heart was as affectionate — 
as grateful for kindness as ever. " Thank you, 
thank you," still came from her sweet lips, and 
she would often say, " I lud du." 

It was most distressing to see her suffer, and 
to be totally unable to relieve her. We tried to 
divert her attention but could only do it for a 
moment. Placing her little table in- the crib, 
and setting on it her baby cups and saucers, and 
knives and forks, I asked her to " give mama 



168 THE BROKEN BUD. 



some dinner." She tried to play, but could not 
enter into it. Still hoping to turn her thoughts 
from her extreme pain, I said, " Won't you give 
mama a piece of pie ?" With her trembling 
fingers, she took up a tiny knife and fork, and 
tried, as if to cut a piece, but laid them down 
again saying so sorrowfully, " Mama, ivill you 
help yourself?" Ah, dear one! how willingly 
would I have borne thy pains, how agonizingly, 
alas, I did bear them ! And now the little 
knives and forks are treasured up as sad memo- 
rials. These remain, but my Carrie is gone for- 
ever. 

Oh ! how different does death appear since our 
child went through the dark valley ! " Couldn't 
papa and I die together, both of us ?" No, my 
sweet one, thou wentest alone, and yet not alone. 
Did not some kind angel bear away thy freed 
soul to the bright spirit-land ? 

" God took thee in his mercy, 

A lamb untasked, untried ; 
He fought the fight for thee, 
*Ee won the victory, 

And thou art sanctified. 



FIRST DAYS OP SICKNESS. 169 

Now like a dew-drop shrined 

Within a crystal stone, 
Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove, 
Safe with the Source of love, 

The Everlasting One. 

And when the hour arrives 

From flesh that sets me free, 
Thy spirit may await 
The first at heaven's gate, 

To meet and welcome me." 

C. Bowles. 



€\i /airing %uk 

" Haste to depart. The breeze of earth 
Is all too rude for thee ; 
For thou wast destined from thy birth, 
For realms more fair and free. 

Our warmest beams too coldly glow 

Thy beauties to expand ; 
Thy spirit lingers here below 

As in a foreign land. 
* % * * * 

And yet to us thou art as dear 
As earthly thing can be ; • 

And we are fain to keep thee here 
And share our hearts with thee. 

The thought how brief thy sojourning 
In this low vale may prove, 

But makes us closer round thee cling, 
And wakes to deeper love." 



THE FADING BUD. 171 



All the remedies which we used, proved un- 
successful in relieving dear Carrie's extreme dis- 
tress, and change was passing over that sweet 
face. For a time she had retained her color and 
looked comparatively natural, but the rose now 
forever left her cheek, and she was so pale and 
deathlike that we could scarcely look upon her 
without tears. Our sweet bud that was grow- 
ing up under our eyes, delighting our hearts 
with its beauty and fragrance, was fading — still 
fading. The tender leaves were blighted, and 
the delicate blossom hung drooping on its stem. 
Who could say whether it would revive again ? 
Tenderly we nursed it* but blighting disease 
stayed not its progress. 

Alas, Death touched the spring of life, 

TsTor skill, nor love could save ; 
In childhood's freshest, sweetest bloom, 

He bore her to the grave. 

She was now so feeble as to be disturbed by 
the slightest noise. Hearing some one stepping 
hard one day in the chamber above, she started 
in alarm while tears filled her eyes. " What is 
the matter, my darling?" "I am afraid the 
house is coming down." 



172 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Early the next week, we received the follow- 
ing letter : 
" Dear Children, 

"I can think of hardly anything but you 
and your precious child. I pray that God would 
spare her, and would train her up for usefulness 
and for happiness here below. But should her 
life soon end, I should have confidence in the in- 
finite love and tender mercy of our Grod and 
Saviour, who has made such promises to parents 
and their offspring, and who can fulfil his most 
gracious designs in those very events which are 
most grievous to our hearts. * # # * 

Turn the current of your thoughts as much 
as may be towards G-od, and his rich grace, and 
his holy commands, and precious promises, and 
the blessedness of those who do his will. Won- 
derful things in the course of God's administra- 
tion will take place, scenes of overwhelming in- 
terest will open before us, — and the universe will 
see that there is no fault in G-od, — no mistake in 
his government. He will be glorified and ad- 
mired forever. Let us hide ourselves in the 
secret of his sanctuary, and all will be safe. 
" Dear Caro ! I love her tenderly, and pray God 



THE FADING BUD. 173 



to deal mercifully with her, and I have no doubt 
He will. 

" Your loving and sympathizing father." 

Such sympathy was peculiarly grateful to us, 
while compelled to watch the wasting progress 
of disease. Our hearts were inexpressibly pained 
in witnessing the sufferings of our child. Never, 
never can we fomet how she looked as she sat 
in her father's lap to take her medicine. Oh ! 
what a sad image to haunt us, — the dear, pa- 
tient sufferer with her pale, sorrowful face, try- 
ing to swallow the sickening draught. But why 
such bitter, bitter regrets ? A sunny life, a few 
days of sickness and distress, a quiet death and 
an eternity of bliss ! 

" Then tliou, the mother of so sweet a child, 
Her false imagined loss cease to lament, 
And wisely think to curb thy sorrows wild ; 
Think what a present thou to God hast sent, 
And render him with patience what he lent." 

Milton. 



€tyi Btntjjn'B jl v ititttt|- 

" Saviour, that of woman born 
Mother-sorrow didst not scorn, 
Thou with whose last anguish strove 
One dear thought of earthlv love : 
Hear, and aid ! 

Low she lies, my precious child, 
With her spirit wandering wild, 
From its gladsome tasks and play, 
And its bright thoughts far away : — 
Saviour, aid ! 

Pain sits heavy on her brow, 
E'en though slumber seal it now ; 
Round her lip is quivering strife, 
In her hand, unquiet life : 
Aid, oh aid ! 

Saviour, loose the burning chain 
From her fevered heart and brain, 



THE MOTHER'S LITANY. 175 

Give, oh give her young soul back 
Into its own cloudless track ! 
Hear, and aid ! 

Thou that saidst, * awake, arise !' 
E'en when death had quenched the eyes, 
In this hour of grief's deep sighing, 
When o'erwearied hope is dying ! 
Hear, and aid ! 

Yet, oh ! make her thine, all thine, 
Saviour ! whether death's or mine ! 
Yet, oh ! pour on human love 
Strength, trust, patience from above ! 
Hear, and aid !" 

Mrs. Hemans. 

Often is the petition upon our lips, " Thy 
will, oh God, be done !" And when our heav- 
enly Father is crowning us with loving kindness 
and tender mercy, it is easy for the heart to re- 
spond to what the lips utter. But when the 
same Fatherly hand, and with the same infinite 
kindness, holds over us the rod of correction, then 
the heart pauses as the solemn words, " Thy will 
be done," linger upon the lips. 

But while we were thus struggling, God was, 



176 THE BROKEN BUD. 

I trust, preparing the dear child for glory. One 
day Carrie said to a friend, " I wish I could 
get well." " You must pray to Grod to make 
you well." " I can't say that now." " Then 
you must think it in your heart." She closed 
her eyes, and seemed to be praying. And thy 
Father heard thy prayer, dear child! He took 
thee to that world, the inhabitant whereof shall 
no more say, "I am sick." Yes, her petition is 
granted. The precious gem might have been 
sullied in our hands. It is safe now, and it 
sparkles in the diadem of Him, on whose head 
are many crowns. But the dear casket, which 
it hallowed and beautified,— which we cherished 
so tenderly, and loved so dearly, — that was to 
be buried out of our sight. 

One morning dear Carrie seemed quite bright, 
and as her sister stood near her, she called for 
her toys. She thought she could play with 
them, but she soon sank back exhausted. Oh ! 
how much pleasure did I anticipate in gratifying 
her wishes, and in reading to her and telling her 
stories when she began to get well. Alas ! so 
fully was my heart set upon her recovery, that 
I saw only favorable indications. This blind- 



THE MOTHER'S LITANY. 177 

ness to her real condition is now matter of deep 
regret, for otherwise, I should have brought my- 
self to have had more talks with her on the sub- 
ject of death, the recollection of which would 
now be a sweet consolation. 

One day, in the earlier part of her sickness, I 
think I asked her if she loved Jesus, and that 
she replied at once, " Yes, mama, He died for 
sinners." She w T as always very attentive to 
such questions, and answered them as from her 
heart. She manifested nothing like impatience 
or fretfulness during her whole sickness, but 
even when in great pain, was uniformly patient 
and gentle. When the Doctor came in, and lean- 
ing over her inquired, " How does my baby 
do ?" almost to the last, when able to speak at 
all, she would answer pleasantly, " Pretty well." 

Her extreme distress seemed to render it 

necessary for her to take opiates freely, which 

of course induced great languor and faintness. 

It was indescribably painful to see our fair child 

wasting away, — till of our blooming Carrie, 

there was hardly the faintest shadow left. Her 

countenance, with a pensiveness unknown to it 

in health, had also assumed a chastened, mature 

12 



178 THE BROKEN BUD. 

expression, so that she seemed five or six years 
older than she was. 

Another letter about this time, comforted our 
sorrowing hearts. 
" My dearly beloved Children, 

" Your last letter caused my poor heart to 
sink. Oh ! my sweet little Caro ! May a mer- 
ciful Saviour deal kindly with her ! I know not 
her present state. Sometimes I hope she is more 
comfortable and likely to recover. Sometimes I 
fear she is no more. Well, Grod knows all, 
and his heart is full of love. And the heart of 
Jesus, oh how tender towards little children. 
He took just such in his arms. And if he were 
now here, he would take yours in his arms and 
say, " Of such is the kingdom of heaven." It 
seems to me, I should be very happy to be in the 
paradise of Grod, with a company of children, 
such as my grandchildren who died so long since, 
and with dear little Caro, if she is called away 
so young. It seems to me the company of such 
darling children would be more delightful to me 
than that of Newton and Locke. 

" But I come back to your afflicted family. I 
long to hear again from that dear child. And 



THE MOTHER'S LITANY. 179 

yet I fear sorrowful tidings. But I will pray 
and hope so long as I may. The Lord comfort 
your hearts, my dear children. These are heart- 
rending scenes, at present not joyous, but griev- 
ous. But in a little while, all will be cleared up, 
and yon will see what love was in the heart of 
Christ towards you during these visitations — and 
what love towards the dear child, — for the blessed 
Saviour who rules in heaven, does not look upon 
little Caro as beneath his regard. He loves her 
as truly as He loves an angel. He knows how 
easy it is to make her as pure and holy and 
happy as an angel. And if she dies so young, I 
think it will be because He wishes to see her 
among the angels now." 

" God looked among his cherub-band 
And one was wanting there 
To swell along the holy land 

The hymns of praise and prayer. 

One little soul, which long had been 
Half-way 'tween earth and sky, 

Untempted in a world of sin, 
He watched with loving eye. 
* * * * 



180 THE BROKEN BUD. 



The world was all too bleak and cold 

To yield it quiet rest. 
God brought it to his shepherd-fold, 

And laid it on his breast. 

There, mother, in thy Saviour's arms, 

Forever undefined, 
Amid the little cherub-band, 

Is thy beloved child." 



Cij? tni mils. 

" Send down thy winged angel, God ! 
Amidst our sorrow wild ; 
And bid him come where now we watch, 
And breathe upon our child ! 

She lies upon her pillow, pale, 

She moans within her sleep, 
Or waketh with a patient smile, 

And striveth not to weep ! 
*& * # # $fc 

We love, — we watch beside her bed, 

To aid when need there be ; 
We hope — we have despaired at times, 

But now we turn to thee ! 

Send down thy sweet souled angel, God ! 

Amidst our sorrow wild ! 
Oh ! bid him soothe our mourning souls, 

And heal our gentle child I" 

Barry Cornwall. 



182 THE BROKEN BUD. 



How soothing is sympathy to the afflicted 
heart ! Of this we had comforting experience 
during our season of trial in the kind attentions 
of friends. One of these, who came in at first for 
a night, remained with us till all was over, 
ministering to our dear one with the tenderness 
of a sister, and sharing our cares, our vigils, 
and our sorrow. Her untiring kindness Carrie 
repaid with warm affection, and the memory of 
it will live forever in the grateful hearts of her 
parents. 

The dear child continued to fail, and at length, 
with emotions that none can conceive but those 
who have passed through similar scenes, we 
stood looking, as we supposed, upon our dying 
daughter. 

" Oh the child, in its hours of health and bloom, that is 

dear as thou wert then, 
Grows far more prized — more fondly loved, — in sickness 

and in pain ; 
And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear child, when every 

hope was lost, 
Ten times more precious to our soul for all that thou 

hadst cost !" 

Her sister held one of her cold hands and tried 



THE LAST GIFTS. 183 



to warm it. " Does Carrie love papa and 
mama ?" She made her usual sign of assent. 
"And do you love your sister and brother? — 
and the dear Jesus ?" To each separate ques- 
tion, she distinctly replied in the affirmative. 
" And would you like to live with Jesus in hea- 
ven?" She gave the same sign of assent. "If 
you should die, my child, would you like to have 
Louise or Alick have your ' new tin cup V " — as 
she called her silver mug. " Louise," the dear 
child replied. " And what would you like to 
give to papa?" " My new box." "And what 
to mama ?" Hesitating a moment, she said, " My 
box of cups and saucers." " And shall Alick 
have your new Bible?" She assented. "And 
to whom do you wish to give these flowers ?" — 
pointing to some in a little glass near her. The 
dear child shook her head. She could give away 
everything but her flowers. 

"I am sorry," said Louise, "that I was ever 
unkind to you : will you forgive me, dear sister ?" 
Carrie bowed her head, and kissed her sister as a 
pledge of her ready pardon. She then gave us 
all what we supposed to be her farewell kiss, and 
also kissed other friends around her. But could 



184 THE BROKEN BUD. 

it be that our beautiful bud lay there almost 
broken ? It may be well for poor human hearts, 
that affliction sometimes stuns us so that at first 
we cannot realize the blow. 

" Shall your father pray for you, my child, 
that if you die, God may take you to heaven ?" 
She gladly assented. Feeling almost as if we 
were entering the dark valley with her, her 
father breathed forth to our merciful Saviour the 
language of our souls, and commended our pre- 
cious lamb, on her lonely journey, to the Good 
Shepherd's care, entreating strength for our day 
of need. And surely we then needed the ever- 
lasting arms for our support. 

Almost every one expected dear Carrie's death 
that night, every one perhaps but her mother. 
And while life remained, it was my feeling that 
she could not die. Once about midnight, we 
thought her just gone. We stood over her, and 
called again and again upon her dear name. 
She spoke not, — she stirred not. With an arrow 
in my soul, I forced apart those sweet lips, 
while her father poured something into her 
mouth. For a moment, we thought she had 
ceased to breathe, but presently she swallowed, 



THE LAST GIFTS. 185 

and who could describe our emotions when she 
called for " water, fresh water." It was like 
life from the dead. Not only was the load re- 
moved from my heart, but I felt as if I had 
wings, and could fly. How sweet were my 
hopes, how soul-felt my gratitude ! How easily 
now did " Thy will be done" arise to my lips! 
How fervent was the response of my heart ! 
Tenderly I kissed her pale forehead, and seating 
myself by her crib, rocked her gently as an in- 
fant. " What shall mama sing to Carrie ?" 
" Sing ' Hush, my dear !' " "With inexpressible 
emotions, I sang through that sweet cradle-hymn. 
It was the third night that I had not slept, and 
now I was too sweetly happy to think of sleep- 
ing. The cocks began to crow and to answer 
one another from a distance. As I listened to 
the cheerful sound, seeming to call back my 
child to life, I could not restrain my grateful 
tears. Oh ! how the crowing of the cock now 
recalls those nights of anxious watchings, and 
those few hours of almost delirious joy ! There 
I sat till the day dawned gently rocking and 
singing, while hope was busy in my heart weav- 
ing sweet dreams of the future. How could I 



186 THE BROKEN BUD. 

hope as I looked on that pale, death-like face ? 
But I not only hoped, I felt certain that she 
would recover. They had all thought she would 
die that night, and Grod had raised her as it 
were from the dead. Fervently did my heart 
ascend invoking Heaven's blessings on our 
spared child. Alas ! I knew not that she was 
spared but to linger with us a few more days of 
distressing suspense ;— I knew not that we were 
soon to be called to a second parting, more agoni- 
zing from the very reprieve which had been 
granted, — a reprieve, which, by raising our hopes 
to an almost certainty of joyful expectation, only 
prepared us for the more bitter disappointment. 
And yet, dear angel-child, — 

" Amid earth's conflict, woe, and care, 

When dark our path appears, 
'Tis sweet to know thou canst not share 

Our anguish and our tears. 
That on thy head no more shall fall 

The storms we may not flee. — 
Yes, safely sheltered from them all, 

We joy that thou art free." 



" Now all is done that love and care, 
And skilful kindness could suggest, 

And He who heard our anxious prayer, 
Will answer as his love thinks best ; 

Oh, that both hopes and fears were still 

Waiting on his mysterious will ! 

And yet both hopes and fears will crowd 

Around that bright and precious child ; 
And both will speak their thoughts aloud, 

Till this distracted heart is wild ; 
Oh, might they all give place to one 
Heart-filling prayer, — " God's will be done !" 
* * % * * * 

Come then, my God, and take the place 
Of these distracting hopes and fears ; 

'Stablish this trembling heart with grace, 
Dry with thine hand these falling tears ; 

And teach me to confide with thee 

The treasure thou could'st trust with me. 



188 THE BROKEN BUD. 

Happy, if rescued from the strait 

Of being called on to decide, 
Here with submissive soul I wait, 

By thy decision to abide, — 
Life with its blessings and its pain, 
Or death with its ' to die is gain.' " 

It seemed desirable in Carrie's sinking state, 
to give her nourishment often, but as she only 
called for water, of which we feared to have her 
drink freely, we sometimes instead gave her 
broth or rice-water. On one occasion, having 
looked inquiringly around the room, she rested 
her eye upon the mantle-piece where stood vari- 
ous cups, saying, "I want fresh water in my 
new tin cup/' "We gave her rice-water in her 
silver cup. Disappointed, she looked again and 
said, " I want to dink out of the little tum- 
bler." And then we gave her broth. She looked 
troubled, but at length, as if sure of what she 
wanted, she said, " I want to dink out of the 
old tin cup that was scoured." The " old tin 
cup" stood in the nursery closet, and was the 
children's drinking cup. She could not tell why, 
but what she had in the other cups did not taste 
right, and she thought if she drank from the old 



DAYS OF SUSPENSE. 189 

one, it would taste as it always did. And how 
often in health, when with glowing cheek she 
came running in for water, had I held the cup 
to her eager lips ! Were those sunny days for- 
ever flown ? 

" I ne'er again a voice may hear 

Of such a witching tone, 
Or bask beneath a smile so dear 

As thine, my lost, mine own. 
My beautiful, ray cherished flower, 

Thy footstep's lightest fall 
Stirred in my heart a magic power, 

And made earth musical. 
But thou, my bird, hast spread thy plumes 

In better, brighter spheres ; 
Far from the dreary shade of tombs, 

The bitterness of tears." 

Our only ground of encouragement during 
several long days and nights of torturing sus- 
pense, was in the simple fact that our child still 
lived. How eagerly did we listen to accounts 
of children who had lain days at the point of 
death, and yet finally recovered ! Sometimes, 
when free from pain, dear Carrie would seem to 
have a consciousness of comfort, in comparison 



190 THE BROKEN BUD. 



with what she had felt. She said one day in a 
touchingly sweet voice, " Now, I am almost all 
ivell again" And once or twice, she tried to 
speak with something of her wonted playfulness. 
These little things greatly encouraged us. Her 
father, who had been composed in view of her 
death, could not control his feelings as he kissed 
her pale forehead, saying, "Oh! it will be too 
sweet a blessing, if she be given back to us." 
And I felt in my heart that she would be given 
back. And yet to look upon our child, we could 
but feel that hope in her case was almost mad- 
ness. 

Oh ! those days and nights when death stood 
at our threshold and darkened our habitation ; — 
those hours of wrestling and struggling and 
agony, when, knowing not the will of the Lord, 
we knew not for what to prepare ourselves, — and 
when, on account of this uncertainty, we shrank 
from the very thought of death with indescriba- 
ble dread. 

Has any mother under such circumstances 
witnessed a funeral ? Language is not adequate 
to describe her emotions as she hears the tolling 
bell, — as she sees the coffin placed in the hearse. 



DAYS OF SUSPENSE. 191 

It seems as if the death shiver had seized her, 
and she can scarcely support herself to look at 
that, upon which her eyes are yet irresistibly 
fastened. " God have mercy on me," is the 
breathing of her soul, "for should such a scene 
be appointed for me, I could never endure it." 
Ah ! there is rebellion in the heart. We distrust 
the power of the blessed Redeemer in supporting 
poor, sinking nature, not considering how often it 
has sustained the human spirit under the most 
agonizing griefs. And yet, with all our shrink- 
ing from sorrow, would we venture to take the 
decision in any such case into our own hands ? 
Oh no ! let God decide, and prepare us for the 
event. We can struggle and pray till enabled in 
some degree to cast our burden upon the Lord, 
and to believe that what He lays upon us He 
will assist us to bear. And if the heart still 
clings to its idol, we can but go on supplicating 
forgiveness and strength from above. 

" Father in heaven ! Thou, only thou canst sound 
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish filled 
For human life, too fearfully profound. 
Therefore forgive, my Father, if thy child, 
Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild 



192 THE BROKEN BUD. 

And sinned in her despair ! It well may be 
That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to thee 
By the crushed hope, too long on this world poured, 
The stricken love which hath perchance adored 
A mortal in thy place ! Now let me strive 
With thy strong arm no more. Forgive, forgive !" 

Mrs. HexMAns. 



taintts figib- 

" Sweet child ! that wasted form, 

That pale and mournful brow, 
O'er which thy soft, dark tresses 

In shadowy beauty flow, — 
That eye, whence soul is darting 

With such strange brilliancy, 
Tell us thou art departing — 

This world is not for thee. 

No ! not for thee is woven 

That wreath of joy and woe, 
That crown of thorns and flowers, 

Which all must wear below ! 
We bend in anguish o'er thee, 

Yet feel that thou art blessed, 
Loved one, so early summoned 

To enter into rest. 

* * * ¥ 

Oh Father of our spirits, 

We can but look to thee ; 
13 



194 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Though chastened, not forsaken, 

Shall we thy children be. 
We take the cup of sorrow, 

As did thy blessed Son, — 
Teach us to say with Jesus, 

' Thy will, not ours, be done.' " 

When does Scripture so open to us its treasures 
of sympathy and consolation as in affliction ? 
Thus I felt while listening to the mournful 
plaints of David in the GIL Psalm, which was 
read one morning in family worship. " My heart 
is smitten and withered like grass, so that I for- 
get to eat my bread. I have eaten ashes like 
bread, and mingled my drink with weeping." 
How does the sorrowing heart into which these 
words have sunk, breathe forth the petition, 
" Hide not thy face from me in the day when I 
am in trouble ; in the day when I call answer 
me speedily" 

During all these sad days, although Carrie had 
ceased to notice playthings, she yet retained her 
fondness for flowers. They were constantly 
around her, and she often held them for a long 
time together. 

Louise had this morning brought in a fresh 



bouquet which evidently pleased her sister. The 
flowers were bright and fragrant) but they were 
nothing compared with our beautiful but fading 
flower. The geranium leaves which she then 
held are withered, yet not cast away. But 
where is she ? Alas ! by the very hands that in 
life ministered only kindness to her, she has 
been put away, the cold sod thrown upon her, 
and the sweet sunlight forever shut out. 

After a time, Carrie asked to be removed to 
the bed, and when there, to our surprise, ex- 
pressed a desire for food, calling successively for 
one thing after another. " You shall have some 
my dear, if the doctor says so." " I want you 
to tell the doctor quick if I mayn't have some." 
Soon after she said, " I want to be Tided into the 
other room." She was carried in on her crib. 
" I want to lie down on your bed." We laid her 
on the bed, but she was not satisfied. " Your bed, 
mama's bed," she repeated. So she was carried 
back into the nursery, and put into " mama's 
bed." " I want to be laid clear over the 
backside." Dear child ! — often in her days of 
health, had she early in the morning crept to 
the backside of the bed, and lay there with her 



sweet face nestled to mine. She wanted to feel 
as she did then. " I want mama to lie down 
close near me." " I want you to hold my hand." 
" I want papa to lie down the other side." After 
a time, she asked to be taken once more into 
the other room. It seemed to be the feeling of 
unrest which so often attends sickness. When 
there, she wished again to have " mama lie 
down close near her." Once more I lay down 
and held that thin, white hand. Then I arose 
never again to lie by my darling's side. 

Oh ! those days of watching, those nights of 
vigils, when, if we fell into unquiet slumber, 
the moment's oblivion was dearly purchased by 
the sad awaking ! And how would Carrie's 
bright image come up before us, as we saw 
the watchers moving softly around our dying 
child. 

On Saturday, I brought a box of toys into the 
room, and as I held them before her she looked 
at them, but it was rather a look as if she were 
bidding farewell to earth. Finding in the box a 
little letter from her sister, I said, " Sometime 
when Carrie wants, mama will read it." " Now," 
said the dear child. So I read to her her sister's 



ANXIOUS VIGILS. 197 



account of her plays, and her longing to have 
her get well and play with her. She listened 
attentively, but from this time she seemed to be- 
long to that world for which she was so soon to 
leave us. 

" I give thee to thy God, the God that gave thee, 
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart ! 

And precious as thou art, 
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled, 

And thou shalt be his child." 



€\i tu\ latj. 



" Ah ! look thy last, fond mother, 

On the beauty of that brow, 
For Death's cold hand is passing o'er 

Its marble stillness now. 
Those silken eyelids, weighing down 

Upon the glazed eye ; 
Are telling to thy aching heart 

The lovely one must die. 

Yes ! mother of the dying one, 

The beautiful must go ! 
The pallid cheek, and fading eye, 

And trembling lip of snow — 
Are signets from the hand of death, 

When unseen angels come, 
To bear the young and beautiful 

To their own happy home. 

Hi Ht * * * 

The flashes of her speaking eye, 
The music of her mirth. 



THE LAST DAY. 199 



Shall never more make glad the hearts 

Around the parent's hearth. 
Then look thy last, fond mother, 

For the earth shall be above, 
And curtain up that sleeping one — 

The darling of thy love." 

With the life of our child, our own life seemed 
ebbing away. But not many more such days 
and nights were we to pass. 

On Sabbath morning our hopes were a little 
raised, but towards noon Carrie's sinking turns 
increased. " Uncover me, mama." She could 
not bear the weight of the clothes. With mourn- 
ful gentleness she spoke of feeling " vely bad." 
Oh ! how saddening for a mother to look upon 
her suffering, dying child, and yet to be utterly 
unable to answer those mute appeals for relief. 

" Through dreary days, and darker nights, 

To trace the march of death ; 
To hear the faint and frequent sigh, 

The quick and shortened breath ; 
To see in one short hour decayed 

The hope of future years ; 
To feel how vain a father's prayers, 

How vain a mother's tears ; 



200 THE BROKEN BUD. 

To watch the last dread strife draw near, 

And pray that struggle brief, 
Though all is ended with its close, — 

This is a mother's grief." 

It is soothing indeed, at such a time, to feel 
that by that sickness and distress so indescribably 
agonizing to us, God is fitting a dear one for 
glory. 

At three o'clock on the last morning of our 
Carrie's sickness, she said, " I want my father." 
As she saw some hesitation, from a reluctance to 
disturb him, she repeated in a pleasant, but ear- 
nest voice, " Call him quick, I can't wait." And 
she looked up in the face of one of the watchers, 
saying very gentiy, " I should like to see my 
father." As some one softly spoke his name, she 
said, " speak louder" She also called herself, 
" father, father!" He heard her in his room, 
and was with her directly. '"I want you to 
hold me." Poor child ! she was so weary, and 
she felt as if she could rest in her father's arms. 

A friend who watched with her that night, 
speaks of her expressive countenance, of her 
patience, and of her intelligent replies to her 
father's questions concerning the Saviour and 



heaven. " She seemed," she said. " like an angel 
taking its flight." 

That morning, her grandfather, who had been 
with us over the Sabbath, took a tender leave of 
her, expressing his hope of her recovery. " And 
if Carrie gets well, she must come soon and see 
us." The dear child kissed him, saying " good- 
bye," and thus the kind grandfather and loving 
grandchild parted to meet no more on earth. 

For some hours she lay tranquil, but so pale, so 
feeble. I placed her favorite doll on the bed, 
thinking it might attract her attention, for my 
heart longed for one more pleased, childlike ex- 
pression on that dear face. But she scarcely 
noticed it. The child was fast ripening into an 
angel, and alas ! the mother had become the 
child. 

As she lay in her father's arms, I read aloud 
Cecil's beautiful hymn. 

" Cease here longer to detain me, 

Fondest mother, drowned in woe ; 
Now thy fond caresses pain me — 
Morn advances — let me go." 

It was most affecting, for as I read it, she 



looked up so imploringly, and seemed entreating 
us to let her go. Her father asked her if she 
loved papa and mama, and having assented, he 
said, " Does Carrie love the dear Jesus?" She 
bowed her head, unable to speak. " And would 
she be afraid to die, and go to heaven without 
papa and mama ?" Hesitating a moment, she 
shook her head. " And will she wait there to 
meet them when they come ?" Again she bowed. 
Yes, she promised to meet us in that beautiful gar- 
den, where, in her own lisping words, she had so 
often prayed that she might go when she died. 

" My little one, ray sweet one, thy couch is empty now, 

Where oft I wiped the dews away, which gathered on 
thy brow. 

No more, amidst the sleepless night, I smooth thy pil- 
low fair, 

'Tis smooth indeed, but rest no more thy small, pale 
features there. 

* * * * % 

My little one, my sweet one, thou canst not come to me, 
But nearer draws* the numbered hour when I shall go to 

thee ; 
And thou perchance, with seraph smile, and golden harp 

in hand, 
May'st come the first to welcome me, to our Emmanuel's 

land." R. Huie. 



€\t 98ttit foinkn. 



u Thou leanest o'er thine infant's couch of pain ; 
It breaks thine heart to see 
The wan glazed eye, the wasted arm, that fain 
Would reach and cling to thee. 
Yet is there quiet rest 
Prepared upon the Saviour's breast, 
For little children, borne on Calvary to be blest." 

Keble. 

" We watched her breathing through the night, 
Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her heart the wave of life 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers, 

To eke her being out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears, our hopes belied ; 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad, 
And chill with early showers, 



204 THE BROKEN BUD. 

Her quiet eyelids closed, — she had 
Another morn than ours." 

Thomas Hood. 

Till the last, Carrie retained her love for 
flowers. Did that love die when her soul passed 
away, or rather did it not soar with her above, 
where bloom fairer and fadeless flowers ? 

On her last day with us, I carried her some 
flowers in a glass, and she looked up as if glad 
to see them. Although the contrast between a 
dying child and bright flowers is striking, yet 
flowers in a sick chamber are peculiarly sweet 
and soothing. To strew them upon a dying bed 
may seem a small thing, yet it is one of the 
most grateful ministries of love. 

" From the chamber take the gloom, 
With a light and flush of bloom. 
So should one depart who goes 

Where no death can touch the rose." 

" Will Carrie take these flowers ?" Not re- 
alizing how weak she was, I held them out to 
her. With effort, she said in a low voice, " Can't 
reach ; — papa put them in my hand." We lifted 
the blanket, and there lay those dear hands 



THE BUD BROKEN. 205 

meekly folded on her bosom. Complying with 
her wish, her father placed the flowers in her 
hand. That hand now moulders in the dust, 
but the faded flowers are still cherished with a 
mournful tenderness. 

That upward look peculiar to the dying, had 
been noticed in her some days before. And now, 
her eyes were raised towards the ceiling, as if 
scenes beyond met her spirit-gaze. There was 
something in her appearance so expressive of 
this, that I could not forbear saying, " What 
does Carrie see ?" She did not reply, seeming 
rapt in her own visions. As I looked upon her, 
those lines recurred to me : 

" Weep not o'er these eyes that languish, 
Upward turning towards their home." 

I felt that the bright spirit-land might be open- 
ing upon her view, but something within checked 
further inquiry. And why is it not probable that 
as this world recedes, the spiritual world is 
opened, and its melodies poured into the soul ? 

For the last, last time, we brought her through 
the entry where we had so often heard the music 
of her little feet. No, not the last time. Once 



206 THE BROKEN BUD. 



more, they bore her across the threshold, once 
more she passed through the entry and the room 
where she had so often played, but — where was 
my Carrie ? 

In the evening, she continued sinking, but 
without a murmur, would open her mouth and 
take her bitter draughts. "With intense solici- 
tude we hung over her, vainly endeavoring to 
warm her cold hands and feet. I could have 
pressed her to my bosom, but its wild throbbings 
would not have quickened the faint beatings of 
that loving heart. Oh ! must we give thee up ? 
Yet— 

" Go to thy sleep, my child, 

Go to thy dreamless bed, — 
Gentle and undefiled, 

With blessings on thy head. 
Fresh roses in thy hand, 

Buds on thy pillow laid, 
Haste from this fearful land 

Where flowers so quickly fade." 

We stood around the bed of our dying child, 
looking upon her with inexpressible sorrow. Her 
voice had subsided into a low whisper. Is it 
now to be hushed forever ? 



THE BUD BROKEN. 207 

Oh! " those moments of indescribable anxiety, 
when the last sands of the numbered hour are 
running ; when the beat of the heart has be- 
come languid ; when the cold hand returns not 
the gentle pressure ; when the weary limbs lie 
still and motionless ; when the eye is fixed, and 
the ear turns no more towards the voice of consol- 
ing kindness ; when the breath becomes feebler 
and feebler, till it dies slowly away, and to the 
listener there is no sound amidst the breathless 
silence ; when surrounding friends continue to 
speak in whispers, and to step through the 
chamber softly, as if still fearful of disturbing 
one, whom the noise of a thousand thunders 
could not now startle, — who has fallen on that 
last sleep, from which nothing shall rouse, but ' the 
voice of the archangel and the trump of Grod.' " 

Yes, our child was dying, and yet deep in my 
heart was a feeling that she could not die. She 
had lingered so long, that I clung fondly to that 
single, forlorn hope. The cold dew of death was 
on her brow, but I believed it not. Her last 
word had been uttered, — her last kiss given, — 
while I still dreamed that our dying blossom 
would yet revive. 



208 THE BROKEN BUD. 



But let a veil be drawn over that night, He, 
who made the human heart, knows its agony ; — 
and He did not forsake. We were in the furnace, 
yet I trust the Refiner was there also. But how 
like a dream did it appear, that thou, sweet 
child, wert gone forever ! 

" Gone to the slumber which may know no waking, 
Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell ; 
Gone where no sound thy still repose is breaking, 
In a lone mansion, through long years to dwell ; 
"Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom, 

Pour not their music, nor their fragrant breath ; 
A seal is set upon thy budding bosom, 
A bond of loneliness, — a spell of death ! 
* * * $ $ 

How have the garlands of thy childhood withered, 

And hope's false anthem died upon the air ! 
Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gathered, 

And his stern bolts have burst in fury there. 
On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even, 

Youth's braided wreath lies stained in sprinkled dust, 
Yet looking upward in its grief to heaven, 

Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust." 

Willis G. Clark. 



/irsi'lnnrs nf Siiti 



"Death lies on her, like an untimely frost 
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field." 

Shakspeare. 



" The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told 

In each glance of her glad, bright eye ; 
And she lies pale who was so bright, — 

She scarce seemed made to die. 
Yet we know that her soul is happy now, 

Where saints their calm watch keep ; 
That angels are crowning that fair young brow, 

Then wherefore do we weep ? 

% % % % * 

The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe, 

That lies like a shadow there, 
Were beautiful in the eyes of all, 

And her glossy, golden hair ! 
But though that lid may never wake 

From its dark and dreamless sleep ; 

She is gone where young hearts do not break, — 

Then wherefore do we weep ? 
14 



210 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



That world of light with joy is bright, 

This is a world of woe : 
Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight, 

Because we dwell below ? 
We will bury her under the mossy sod, 

And one long, bright tress we'll keep ; 
We have only given her back to God, — 

Ah ! wherefore do we weep !" — Mrs. Norton. 

For weeks all our time and thoughts had been 
devoted to our precious child. With what could 
we now occupy ourselves ? How would one day 
ever pass away ? And how could we endure 
day after day, and month after month, and year 
after year ? 

A mother, at such a time, feels almost as if 
she had buried two children. Days before she 
has parted with her blooming, sunny child, and 
ere she has ceased to weep for that loss, she is 
called to part with her sick, suffering one, around 
which, her affections and solicitudes had gathered 
with a before inconceivable intensity ; — now it 
is gone, and what is there left for the desolate 
mother to do ? 

And the first nights of grief, — who that has 
experienced them, can ever forget ? 



FIRST HOURS OF GRIEF. 211 

" To meet again in slumber, 

The small mouth's rosy kiss ; 
Then, wakened with a start 
By thine own throbbing heart, 

The twining arms to miss ! 

To feel, — half conscious why — 
A dull, heart-sinking weight, 

Till memory on thy soul 

Flashes the painful whole, 
That thou art desolate !" 

But, though every hour seems an age, the 
night will wear away, and the sad morning at 
length dawns upon the aching sight. Stillness 
pervades the rooms, for the bounding of the fairy- 
form, the blithesome voice, the gleeful laugh, 
— have all passed into the silence of death. 
Grazing from the window in mute sorrow, you 
see perhaps a coffin borne to your door. Ah ! 
how has your soul recoiled from such an event ! 
And how does it now shrink almost in terror, 
from the thought of your child's being shut up 
within that narrow enclosure ! 

In the midst of scenes like these, we received a 
letter, from which the following is an extract : — 

" How has my heart been pained by the 



212 THE BROKEN BUD. 

intelligence of our dear little Caro's dangerous 
situation ? * # # I cannot but still hope your 
darling may live. She has lingered so long 
beyond hope, we sometimes cling to that forlorn 
one. But perhaps ere this, she has entered her 
bright home on high, — the sorrows of life untas- 
ted. Shall I say, she is or tvas most lovely ? I 
have heard so much of her, that I have imagined 
her everything that was bright, and beautiful 
and good. 

" May our Almighty Friend be near to sustain 
you in this your hour of trial, and may our in- 
tercessions for the life of the child be accepted ! 
But above all, may your hearts, by divine grace, 
be prepared to say, in any event, i It is well.' 
J must hope still. Oh ! may it not yet be too 
late !" 

After such a bereavement, how sad the meet- 
ing with friends ! All sounds are hushed, save 
the convulsive burst of agony as from one after 
another is received the silent pressure of the 
hand, and the weeping kiss of condolence. How 
expressive of sympathy sometimes is silence, and 
how grateful to the sorrowing spirit ! How at 
such moments, does a loud word even in the 



FIRST HOURS OF GRIEF. 213 

attempt to console, strike upon the heart like a 
painful discord ! And if our grief seems im- 
moderate, in vain is all attempt to reason with it 
in such an hour. No ! let it have its way, or 
soothe it by tender sympathy. In the language 
of Erskine, " to suppress the emotions of nature 
in such cases, is not profitable either to soul or 
body." 

" The world's a room of sickness, where each heart 
Knows its own anguish and unrest ; 
The truest wisdom there, and noblest art, 

Is his, who skills of comfort best ; 
Whom, by the softest step and gentlest tone 
Enfeebled spirits own, 
And love to raise the languid eye, 
When, like an angel's wing, they feel him fleeting by." 

The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and no 
one can gauge another's sorrow. He, who wept 
at the grave of Lazarus, has hallowed in us all 
submissive tears. And even should the crushed 
heart in its writhing agonies, fail at first heartily 
to respond, " Thy will be done," yet if He, " who 
remembereth that we are dust," sees it praying 
and struggling for resignation, will He forsake ? 



There is, especially in some temperaments, a 
kind of delirium in the freshness of grief, which 
the soul vainly struggles at once to subdue. 
"When the heart is stricken, it will bleed, — when 
the fountain of grief is broken up, the tears will 
flow, and let them flow ! Only while we lie in 
the heated furnace, let us pray that the dross 
may be consumed, and that we may come forth 
as gold tried in the fire ! How comforting while 
in this furnace, if we may see beside us a form 
like unto the Son of man ! 

But alas ! we struggle and pray for submission 
and calmness, and we think we have attained 
them. But we chance upon soma slight token 
of the departed one, or some little circumstance 
occurs, which casts us anew into the deep waters, 
and for the moment, we feel as if we could not 
have it so. Oh ! how consoling to the stricken, 
breaking heart, to cast itself upon an infinite and 
merciful Grod, — to lay itself, as on a pillow of rest, 
upon the sweet assurance, " He doeth all things 
well." 

" I remember how I loved her, when a little guiltless child, 
I rocked her in my arms, as she looked on me and 
smiled. 



FIRST HOURS 


OF GRIEF. 


215 


My cup of happiness was 


full, my joy 


words cannot 


tell, 






And I blessed the glorious 


Giver, who doeth all things 


well. 






Months passed ; — that bud 


of promise 


was unfolding 


every hour, 






I thought that earth had 


never smiled 


upon a fairer 


flower, 






So beautiful, it well might grace the 


bowers where 


angels dwell, 






And waft its fragrance to 


His throne, 


who doeth all 


things well. 






% # * % * 


* * 


* * 


I remember well my sorrow 


as I stood beside her bed, 


And my deep and heartfelt 


anguish, when they told me 


she was dead. 






And oh ! that cup of bitterness — let 


not my heart 


rebel, 






God gave, He took, He will restore, — u 


He doeth all 


things well." 




F. M. E. 



€§t Inur nf tofcttm 

" Fond mother, she is gone ! 
Her dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast ; 

No more the music-tone 
Float from her lips, to thine ail-fondly pressed ; 
Her smiles and happy laugh are lost to thee ; 
Earth must her mother and her pillow be. 

Hers was the morning hour, 
And she hath passed in beauty from the day ; 

A bud, not yet a flower, 
Torn in its sweetness from the parent-spray ; 
The death-wind swept her to her soft repose, 
As frost in spring-time blights the early rose. 

Never on earth again 
Will her rich accents charm thy listening ear, 

Like some ^Eolian strain, 
Breathing at eventide serene and clear ; 
Her voice is choked in dust, and on her eyes, 
The unbroken seal of peace and silence lies " 

Willis G. Clarke. 



THE HOUR OF DARKNESS. 217 

There is light, even in the darkest hour, but 
the eye iimmed with weeping cannot always 
discern it. The bitterest cup is not without 
some sweet ingredients ; but the wayward heart, 
in its shrinking from the wormwood and the gall, 
is slow to perceive the mercy-drops mingled 
therewith. In the wildness of its grief, the soul 
seems utterly bereft of all that can console. The 
stricken mother has seen her sweet one fade and 
die. Yes, Death, with his awful solemnity, — with 
his profound mystery, — has set his seal upon 
that face of beauty, and the eye that looked so 
kindly, shall look on us no more, and the lips 
that spoke so lovingly, shall speak to us no more. 
The warm fountain is frozen, and the form in- 
stinct with life, lies before our eyes, a body with- 
out soul, — a mere marble image. Marble ? Nay, 
were it literal marble, that would be a sad solace. 
Those lips so pale and cold, are still her lips, — 
the very lips I have so often pressed with a 
mother's rapture. That forehead of snow — 
that wasted form is her own; — yes, it is my 
child ; and were it but marble, I could still cher- 
ish it with affection, — I could bedew it with 
tears. But it is only lifeless clay. Decay is already 



218 THE BROKEN BUD. 

writing itself upon the face of the dead. Ah ! 
was it not enough that the spirit should leave 
me ? Must cruel Death also bear away the 
body as a trophy of his power ? And does the 
spirit still live ? And will the body live again ? 

Oh, this mystery of being ! — this life, — this 
death ! All our associations of our child are con- 
nected with the dear form, which we have cher- 
ished so tenderly, but which is now put out of 
our sight. We saw not the spirit as it soared 
away, but we saw the body die, and with in- 
tensest agony, we feel that our child is dead — 
dead ; as if, like a dream of the night, it had 
passed forever away ; and of all that had been 
precious to us, — there was nowhere anything 
remaining, but the icy form which we have laid 
in the grave, to moulder in darkness and silence, 
— " earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." 

How does the bleeding heart exclaim, " Where 
is Grod my Maker, who giveth songs in the 
night?" " Behold, I go forward, but He is not 
there ; and backward, but I cannot perceive 
him." " My wound is incurable" 

" Oh Thou, that wilt not break the bruised reed, 
Nor heap fresh ashes on the mourner's brow, 



THE HOUR OF DARKNESS. 219 

Nor rend anew the wounds that inly bleed, — 

The only balm of our afflictions, Thou ; 
Teach us to bear thy chastening* wrath, oh God ! 
To kiss with quivering lips, — still humbly kiss thy rod ! 

Forgive, forgive even should our full hearts break ; 

The broken heart thou wilt not, Lord, despise ; 
Oh ! Thou art still too gracious to forsake, 

Though thy strong hand so heavily chastise. 
Hear all our prayers, hear not our murmurs, Lord, 
And though our lips rebel, still make thyself adored." 

It is not till the doctrines of the life of the 
spirit, and the resurrection of the body, and a re- 
union in the better land, overcome the incredu- 
lity of hopeless sorrow, and are fully received 
into the believing heart ; — it is not till then, that 
we discern light in our darkness. Then we tri- 
umphantly exclaim : — 

" On the cold cheek of Death, smiles and roses are blend- 
ing* 
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." 

Then we perceive that from our broken harp- 
strings God can bring forth melody. We look 
up and behold the face of our kind Father, 
where before, we saw only an avenging Grod. 



" Darkened ! oh ! say not so — 
From thine excess of woe, 
Light may be born to cheer, with radiance tender, 

Thy pilgrim-path, though rough it seem and lowly. 
Press on ! — it leadeth to the Fount of Splendor — 
The Light Essential that surrounds the Holy ! 
Then shalt thou know — what now may seem obscure- 
Why with severest trial, 
With pain and self-denial, 
With griefs that seem too heavy to endure, 

The heart is burdened, till, benumbed with aching, 
Torpor alone can keep its strings from breaking ! 

Not dead — oh no ! — not dead 
Is the meek flower that round thy being shed 
Delicious odors — though it seemed to die. 

Earth's winds were all too cold ; 
Too often clouded was our nether sky. 
That blossom could unfold 
Its full perfection, only where, on high, 
Perpetual sunshine evermore doth lie 
Upon the Fields of ImmofvTality. 

Therefore by Him who granted 
Its life at first, 'tis tenderly transplanted, 

Where no untimely frosts may blight, 
Nor rough winds break its shivering stem ; 
Where, to the touch of heavenly light, 



THE HOUR OF DARKNESS. 221 

Its leaves shall thrill, while over them 
Hues brighter than thy fancy ever painted 

Shall flash and change, as o'er the northern sky 
Auroral splendors flash, to beautify 
The winter night, — and odors never tainted 
By earthly contact, from its heart shall flow 
As light flows from the sun, — and thou shalt know 
How brightly, in the Garden of our Lord, 
Blooms the sweet flower whose first 
Budding by thee was nursed. 
So shall thy heart grow strong, and on thy way 
Thou shalt pass calmly, looking for that day 
When the lost treasure, loved so fondly here, 
Perfected then, and more than doubly dear, 
Shall to thy yearning bosom be restored !" 

William H. Burleigh. 



€§t EmntmL 



" How peacefully they rest, 
Cross-folded there 
Upon its little breast, — 
Those tiny hands that ne'er were still before, 
But ever sported with its mother's hair, 
Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore ! 
Her heart no more will beat, 

To feel the touch of that soft palm, 
That ever seemed a new surprise, 
Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes, 

To bless it with their holy calm, — 
Sweet thoughts, that left her eyes as sweet. 
How quiet are the hands 

That wove those pleasant bands ! 
But that they do not rise and sink 
With its calm breathing, I should think 
That it were dropped asleep ; 
Alas ! too deep, too deep 
Is this its slumber ! 
Time scarce can number 
The years ere it will wake again." 



THE REMOVAL. 223 



" I could not make her spirit fled, 
I could not make my sweet ' child' dead ; 
Though oft they told me she was gone, 
And 'twas but dust I looked upon, 
I could not make her dead. 

She lay as if in dreamy rest, 
Her hands, meek-folded on her breast ; — 
Her lips, which knew no word of guile, 
Half-parted with a beaming smile. 
I could not make her dead. 

But when I pressed her sweet lips twain, 
And felt no kiss pressed back again ; 
And in her eye no tears could see 
When mine were flowing mournfully, 
I knew that she was dead. 

In sleep, she whispered me of lands 
Where time moved not by dropping sands ; — 
Of singing-birds and chanting streams ; — 
Of scenes more fair than pictured dreams 
To which her soul had fled. 

Morn came — a tear was on my cheek ; 
Of joy or grief I could not speak. 
The dead child by my side lay shriven, 
The living child was blessed in heaven, 
In truth she was not dead." 

J. A. Swan. 



224 THE BROKEN BUD. 



How many and many a time will a stricken 
mother's heart exclaim, — " can my child be 
dead ?" The affliction seems too overwhelming 
to be real, and the mind shrinks from accredit- 
ing the fearful truth. We can almost sooner 
believe ourselves mistaken in the infallible sig- 
net of death, and we are half seeking signs of 
life in the soulless clay before us. Vain hope 
for the aching heart! Let it rather look away 
from the lifeless body to the immortal spirit, 
which now first knows the meaning of life, glo- 
rious, eternal life. 

It was our desire that our child should sleep 
in her native place, by my mothers side, and 
thither preparations were made to remove her 
dear remains. 

Can a mother's emotions be described as she 
beholds her child taken from her home never 
again to cross its threshold, — the silent form 
borne away forever ; — as she enters familiar 
places, where the tenderest reminiscences of her 
lost one, and a thousand inexpressible thoughts 
and feelings unseal the fountain of grief? But 
when in deep waters, thou, oh (rod, wilt not 
leave the sinking soul alone. 



THE REMOVAL. 225 



" Thou wilt be there, and not forsake, 

To turn the bitter pool 
Into a bright and breezy lake, 

The throbbing brow to cool : 
Till left awhile with thee alone, 
The wilful heart be fain to own, 
That He by whom our bright hours shone 

Our darkness best may rule. 

From darkness here, and dreariness, 

We ask not full repose, 
Only be Thou at hand to bless 

Our trial-hour of woes. 
Is not the pilgrim's toil o'erpaid 
By the clear rill, and palmy shade ? 
And see we not, up Earth's dark glade 

The gate of Heaven unclose ?" 

Keble. 
15 



€\i total, 

" Softly, peacefully 

Lay her to rest ; 
Place the turf lightly 

On her young breast; 
Gently, solemnly, 

Bend o'er the bed 
"Where ye have pillowed 

Thus early her head. 

Plant a young willow 
Close by her grave ; 

Let its long branches 
Soothingly wave ; 

Twine a sweet rose-tree 
Over the tomb ; 

Sprinkle fresh buds there- 
Beauty and bloom. 

Lay the sod lightly 
Over her breast ; 

Calm be her slumbers, 
Peaceful her rest. 



THE BURIAL. 227 



Beautiful, lovely, 
She was but given, 

A fair bud to earth 
To blossom in heaven." 



" Sleep, little daughter, sleep ! 

Not in thy cradle-bed, 
Not on thy mother's breast 
Henceforth shall be thy rest, 

But with the quiet dead. 

Flee, little tender nursling ! 

Flee to thy grassy nest ; 
There the first flowers shall blow, 
The first pure flakes of snow 

Shall fall upon thy breast." 

C. Bowles. 

As her child is borne away to its last resting- 
place, how could the mother be sustained, except 
the everlasting arms were around her ? Slowly 
she follows in the mournful procession, while her 
throbbing heart is knelling her departed hopes. 
The sacred spot is reached. With anguish 
known only to One, she looks into the open grave, 
and struggles for submission to the sentence, 



" Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou re- 
turn." The dreaded moment has come ; — there 
is no reprieve. Her child is laid upon the earth's 
cold bosom, — she takes one last, lingering look, 
—and turns away, leaving her darling sealed in 
the long sleep of death. Thou (rod of consola- 
tion, sustain her now ! 

" Ay, pale and silent ' daughter,' 

Cold as thou liest there, 
Thine was the sunniest nature 

That ever drew the air. 
1 The gayest and most gladsome,' 

And yet so gently kind, 
Thou seemedst but to body 

A breath of summer-wind. 

Into the eternal shadow 

That girts our life around, 
Into the infinite silence, 

Wherewith Death's shore is bound, 
Thou hast gone forth, ' my darling,' 

And it were ' wrong' to weep 
That thou hast left Life's shallows, 

And dost possess the deep. 

Thou liest low and silent, — 
Thy heart is .cold and still, 



THE BURIAL. 229 



Thine eyes are shut forever, 

And Death has had his will. 
He loved, and would have taken, 

I loved, and would have kept ; — 
We strove, and he was stronger 

And I ' in anguish' wept. 

Let him possess thy body, — 

Thy soul is still with me, 

More sunny and more gladsome 

Than it was wont to be. 
% * % * * 

Now I can see thee clearly ; — 

The dusky cloud of day, 
That hid thy starry spirit, 

Is rent and blown away. 
To earth I give thy body, 

Thy spirit to the sky, 
I saw its bright wings growing, 

And knew that it must fly. 

Now I can love thee truly, — 

For nothing comes between 
The senses and the spirit, 

The seen and the unseen ; 
Lifts the eternal shadow, — 

The silence bursts apart, — 
And the soul's boundless future 

Is present in my heart." — J. R. Lowell. 



lUtuM frnra tjiB <§nnt 



"'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead. 
Her presence, like the shadow of a wing 
That is just lessening in the upper sky, 
Lingers upon us." 

N. P. Willis. 



" We meet around the hearth, — thou art not there, 

Over our household joys hath passed a gloom ; 
Beside the fire we see thy empty chair, 

And miss thy sweet voice in the silent room. 

What hopeless longings after thee arise ! 
Even for the touch of thy small hand I pine, 

And for the sound of thy dear little feet — 
Alas ! tears dim my eyes, 
Meeting in every place some joy of thine, 

Or when fair children pass me in the street. 

* % # * * * 

Oh ! what had Death to do with one like thee ? 

Thou young and loving one, whose soul did cling, 
Even as the ivy clings unto the tree, 

To those who loved thee, thou whose tears would spring, 
Dreading a short day's absence, didst thou go 



RETURN FROM THE GRAVE. 231 

Alone into the future world unseen, 
Solving each awful, untried mystery, 
The unknown to know, 
To be where mortal traveller hath not been — 
"Whence welcome tidings cannot come from thee : 

Mary Howitt. 

Oh ! the returning from the grave of a buried 
child ! How do the tenderest memories come 
thronging at the door of the soul ! Grrief's sable 
pall overshadows the broad earth, and clothes with, 
its sombre drapery the canopy of blue. And 
if we try to look beyond, the eye, dim with 
weeping, can scarcely catch a glimpse of the 
sweet sunlight of heaven. The grave ! the 
grave ! the heart goes down into it, and lingers 
in its deep, dark shadow. But why are all our 
thoughts concentrated there ? Why, with cease- 
less yearnings does the heart still cleave to the 
perishable and the perishing ? 

" It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love, 
This wild and passionate idolatry, — 
What doth it in the shadow of the grave ? 
Gather it back within thy lonely heart, 
So must it ever end : too much we give 
Unto the things that perish." 



232 THE BROKEN BUD. 

Yes, we have sinned, and our Father has stricken 
us. Our idol is torn from our heart, inflicting a 
wound, which the supporting grace of God, and 
the soothing hand of time may indeed bind up, 
but which can never be healed. For the moment, 
no considerations drawn from the present life 
avail to relieve our utter wretchedness. We 
readily acknowledge that our cup might have 
been mingled with still bitterer ingredients, — 
that it might have been yet more filled up with 
anguish ; — still we feel that it is full to the brim, 
and as bitter as we can bear. 

"Oh! but ill 
When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the ' mother's' heart 
Bears its first blow ! It knows not yet the part 
Which life will teach ! — to suffer and be still, 
And with submissive love to count the flowers 
Which yet are spared." 

In the very attempt to direct our thoughts to 
the blessings that remain, we find an aggrava- 
tion of our sorrow. If we turn to a sympathizing 
companion whose heart is bleeding with the 
same wound, we but weep afresh. If we look 
upon dear children still remaining to us, not only 



RETURN FROM THE GRAVE. 233 

do we tremble at the now, for the first time, felt 
insecurity of our possession, but we also weep 
anew for them. And if they, in the unconscious- 
ness of childhood, but faintly realize their loss, 
this very unconsciousness renders us more keenly 
sensitive on their behalf. No matter how many 
or how dear the loved ones left to us, — the heart 
still yearns after the light that is quenched. 
Such is human nature. It is the lost treasure to 
which we attach the greatest value. 

" What man of you, having an hundred sheep, 
if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety 
and nine in the wilderness, and go after that 
which is lost, until he find it ? Either what 
woman, having ten pieces of silver, if she lose 
one piece, doth not light a candle, and sweep 
the house, and seek diligently till she find it ?" 

It may seem unreasonable that the one stray 
sheep out of a hundred, — the one missing piece 
of silver out of ten pieces, should so occupy the 
time and engross the heart, but, — so are we con- 
stituted. If we lay a dear child in the grave, 
our thoughts are ever of the missing one. In 
our deep sense of loss, the attempt to stem the 
wild torrent of grief may be for a time, utterly 



234 THE BROKEN BUD. 



in vain. And yet in this midnight of the soul, 
we often feel most sensibly how truly we needed 
the rod of the Chastener. "We then are self- 
convicted of idolatry, and while quivering under 
the chastisement, we are constrained to cry out 
for forgiving mercy — for sustaining grace. 

" And thou, my God ! 
Oh ! hear and pardon me ! If I have made 
This treasure sent from thee, too much the ark, 
Fraught with mine earth-ward clinging happiness, 
Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume, 
Oh, pardon me ! 

If nature hath rebelled, 
And from the light turned wilfully away, 
Making a midnight of her agony, 
When the despairing passion of her clasp, 
Was from its idol stricken at one touch 
Of thine Almighty hand — oh, pardon me ! 
By thy Son's anguish, pardon ! In the soul, 
The tempests, and the waves will know thy voice — 
Father, say, ' Peace be still.' " 

Mrs. Hemans. 



€§t fitsi Jligjit. 



" Mother, sweet mother, leave my tomb I 
Thy loved one is not there, 
Nor will its planted flowerets bloom 
While wept on by despair." 



" As summer-flower she grew, 

Expanding to the morn, 
All gemmed with sparkling dew, 

A flower without a thorn, 
A mother's sweet and lovely flower, 
Sweeter and lovelier every hour. 

But ah ! my morning bloom 
Scarce felt the warming ray ; 

An unexpected gloom 
Obscured the rising day : 

A dreary, cold, and withering blast, 

Low on the ground its beauties cast. 

* * # * i 

But why in anguish weep ? 

Hope beams upon my view ; 
'Tis but a winter's sleep, — 

My flower shall spring renew. 



236 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Each darling flower in earth that sleeps, 
7 er which fond memory hangs and weeps ; — 

All to new life shall rise, 

In heavenly beauty bright, 
Shall charm my ravished eyes, 

In tints of rainbow light; 
Shall bloom unfading in the skies, 
And drink the dews of Paradise ! 

Oh, this is blest relief! 

My fainting heart it cheers ; 
It cools my burning grief, 

And sweetens all my tears. 
These eyes shall s v ee my darling then, 
Nor shed a parting tear again." 

Dr. Wardlaw. 

What but the voice of God can whisper peace 
to the bereaved mother, through the long hours 
of her child's first night in the grave ? How 
almost impossible is it, at once, entirely to divest 
herself of the feeling that consciousness has not 
wholly forsaken its lifeless form ! She almost 
fancies its spirit-voice mingling its thrilling 
plaints with the dismal wind, and calling her to 
its side. She half longs to go, alone, if need be, 



THE FIRST NIGHT. 237 

and in the gloomy night, — down into the nar- 
row grave, — and to press that cold form to her 
throbbing heart. But peace, troubled soul ! 
This is the delirium of a mother's grief. 

Where thou sleepest, my loved one, no tempest 
can reach thee. The beating rains, and the howl- 
ing winds disturb not thy slumbers. Safe under 
the shadow of His wings shalt thou rest, until 
these storms be overpast. It is a hallowed bed 
whereon thou liest, for there the dear Saviour 
reposed. Thy pillow is damp and cold, but on 
the same pillow did He lay his sacred head. 

From the profound silence of the grave, 
there steals a cheering voice. Where philos- 
ophy fails ; where reason staggers ; where nature 
starts back in terror ; and the stricken, bleed- 
ing heart, sees only utter darkness, — feels only 
hopeless misery, — then, — in the soul's greatest 
extremity, — with a voice sweeter than song, — 
how does Jesus of Nazareth breathe into it the 
spirit-soothing words, "I am the resurrection 
and the life !" 

" Unchanged that voice, — and though not yet 
The dead sit up and speak, 



Answering its call ; we gladlier rest 
Our darlings on earth's quiet breast, 

And our hearts feel they must not break." 

What a bright morning of hope thus dawns 
upon the soul in her deep night of grief! In 
the beautiful language of Melville, 

" What are we to say to these things ? What, 
but that in the deepest moral darkness, there can 
be music, music which sounds softer and sweeter 
than by day ; and that, when the instruments of 
human melody are broken, there is a hand which 
can sweep the heart-strings, and wake the notes 
of praise ? 

" The harp of the human spirit never yields 
such sweet music, as when its framework is 
most shattered, and its strings are most torn. 
Then it is, when the world pronounces the in- 
strument useless, and man would put it away 
as incapable of melody, that the finger of God 
delights in touching it, and draws from it a fine 
swell of harmony." 

Yes, there is joy in our sorrow. Our hearts 
may weep in the very bitterness of anguish, but 
hope shines through our tears, like a rainbow on 
the face of a cloud. 



THE FIRST NIGHT. 239 

Oh ! " many a weary, sleepless night, and weary, sleepless 

day, 
We watched, beside thy burning bed, thy young life pass 

away ! 
Oh ! faithfully we watched thee then, amidst thy pangs ; 

— but thou 
Art fallen asleep on Jesus' breast, and He will watch 

thee now. 

% * * * * 

But many a bitter tear we shed, as we sadly asked for 

room 
To hide our loved one from our sight, within the silent 

tomb. 
Yet upward through those tears to heaven, each eye in 

hope was cast, 
That there will dawn for thee a day, the holiest and the last; 
A day of endless life and joy, of fadeless, cloudless light, 
When God Almighty and the Lamb shall chase away 

the night. 
Oh ! lovely wert thou in our eyes, my beautiful, but thou 
Wilt wake with God's own likeness then, upon thy 

cherub-brow. 

Thou mayst not come again to us ; we would not call 

thee back, 
To tread with us, 'midst toil and gloom, the pilgrim's 

desert-track : 



240 THE BROKEN BUD. 



But oh ! that He, the lowly One, would grant us grace 

to be 
Like thee in childlike gentleness, and meek simplicity ; 
Then shall we follow where thou art, and in the trying 

day, 
When we must tread the vale of death, thou'lt meet us 

on our way, 
A radiant messenger of God, sent from the holy throng 
Around the throne, to welcome us with angel-harp and 

song; 
Oh ! blest will be our meeting then, in that pure home 

on high, 
Where sin no more shall cloud the heart, or sorrow dim 

the eye." 

G. W. Bethune. 



Lo ! "A dark dream has swept across my brain, 
A wild, a dismal dream that will not break — 
A rush of fear — an agony of pain — 
Pangs and suspense that inly made me quake. — 
My child ! my child ! I saw thy sweet eyes take 
A strange, unearthly lustre, and then fade ; 
And oh ! I deemed my heart must surely break, 
As stooping, I thy pleasant looks surveyed, 
And felt that thou must die, and then in dust be laid. 

Oh ! precious in thy life of happiness ! 
Daily and hourly valued more and more, 
Yet, to the few brief days of thy distress, 
How faint all love my spirit knew before ! 
I turn and turn, and ponder o'er and o'er, 
Insatiate, all that sad and dreamy time. 
Thy words thrill through me — in my fond heart's core 
I heard thy sighs, and tears shed for no crime, 
And thy most patient love sent from a happier clime. 

How dim and dismal is my home ! — a sense 

Of thee spreads through it like a haunting ill ; 
16 



242 THE BROKEN BUD. 

For thou — forever, thou hast vanished thence ! 
This — this pursues me, pass where'er I will, 
And all the traces thou hast left, but fill 
The hollow of thine absence with more pain ; 
I toil to keep thy living image still ; 
But fancy feebly doth her part maintain ; 
I see, yet see thee not, my child ! as I would fain. 

In dreams forever thy dear form I grasp, 
In noonday reveries do I rove — then start — 
And certainty, as with an iron clasp, 
Shuts down once more to misery my heart, 
Ending its care and knowledge with ' Farewell !' 
But in my soul a shrined life thou art, 
Ordained with memory and strong hope to dwell, 
And with all pure desires to sanctify thy cell." 

William Howitt. 

Who can describe the desolation of a home 
which death has visited, or that of a bereaved 
mother's heart, as she sits in her lonely chamber, 
and lives again the past ? 

" Here by the restless bed of pain, 

Sad vigils have been kept, 
Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain, 

Burst forth on eyes that wept. 
Here has been felt the hush, the gloom, 

The breathless influence shed 



THE DESOLATED HOME. 243 

Through the dim dwelling, from the room 
Wherein reposed the dead." 

Oh ! that unutterable sense of loss, which day 
and night seems consuming the soul ! Gro where 
we may, do what we will, — everywhere, — in 
everything, we see our buried child ! In our 
daily round of duties, as we open a drawer, and 
discover a little dress or apron, or meet with the 
small, half-worn shoes, or chance upon some 
plaything, calling up the bright image of our 
departed one, how do new waves of sorrow 
successively break over us ! Then those strange 
illusions, which but mock our misery. 

<; We can hear her voice, 
And for her step we listen, and the eye 
Looks for her wonted coming, with a strange, 
Foro-etful earnestness." 

And who can portray those unutterable longings, 
once more, oh, but once, to look upon that face 
now sleeping beneath the sod ? And if for a 
time, busy thought comes up from the grave, 
and soars beyond the sky, it is often but to 
weary itself with vain strivings after some 
definite intelligence of the departed spirit. Some- 



244 THE BROKEN BUD. 

times fancy pictures her child to the weeping 
mother, as turning away from the myriads of 
strange faces in its unfamiliar abode, with pinings 
for its early home, and for its loved ones there. 
Could I only have some assurance, will the heart 
whisper, that all is familiar and pleasant, — that 
its loving spirit is understood and satisfied ! But 
how can even the angels minister to it with a 
mother's tenderness, or enter into its feelings 
with a mother's sympathy ? I look up to the 
far-off sky, and long to penetrate the mystery, 
— not I trust from vain curiosity, but from a 
mother's intense desire to know something of her 
loved one's new abode. What is heaven ? And 
where is it ? Do departed spirits still commune 
with earth ? Alas ! no tidings from that distant 
shore. Never — never, till I myself go through 
the dark way, shall I know aught of the sweet 
dove, which just now nestled lovingly in my 
arms, but which has gone forth into the mysteri- 
ous spirit-land. Oh! these irrepressible yearn- 
ings, these wild questionings, to which, from 
nature's voice, comes no reply ! 

" Speak then, thou voice of God within, 
Thou of the deep, low tone, 



THE DESOLATED HOME. 245 

Answer me, tb rough life's restless din, 

Where is the spirit flown ? 
And the voice answered, l Be thou still, 

Enough to know is given ; 
Clouds, winds, and stars their task fulfil, 

Thine is to trust in heaven.' " 

And as days and weeks pass away, our suffer- 
ing may become more exquisite even than in the 
first convulsive grief. It is not when we watch 
the parting soul, nor when we look upon the 
lifeless form, nor yet when we lay it in the 
grave, that we know the whole bitterness of 
bereavement ; — but it is when the lagging weeks 
have dragged by, and in our solitude, we awake 
to the full reality of our loss. This is the mid- 
night of our sorrow — this the wormwood and 
the gall. To the wild tempest of grief has 
indeed succeeded a calm. It is not however the 
calm of a bright sunshine, but that of a still, 
wintry night. The fearful sobbings, the passion- 
ate gushes of sorrow may have died away, but 
the desolate silence that reigns within, tells but 
too truly of the storm which has swept over the 
soul. 

But of all the sad days, perhaps to us the 



246 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



saddest, if sorrow can be measured by degrees, 
was our Carrie's birth-day. The following is 
from a letter written by her father on this 
mournful occasion. 

" This is a sorrowful day to us both. The 
fourth birth-day of our darling Caro is her first 
birth-day in heaven. She is not, for Grod took 
her. Or rather, she lives much more now than 
ever before ; not here indeed in her sweet and 
precious body, but in the bright world above, 
with that sweeter and more precious spirit, 
which shone in those loving eyes, and which 
animated that beautiful form. We shall see her 
no more in the flesh. She cannot return to us, 
but we shall go to her. We shall see her — her 
own self — as our own human, darling child. We 
shall enjoy her as such, in all the ways of which 
our human nature in heaven is capable, — as we 
enjoyed her here, only in a perfect way, and with 
sanctified human affections. She will bless us 
for all the pains we took to teach her of the 
Saviour, and to direct her childish thoughts and 
affections to him. She will remember all our 
parental care, and repay our parental affection 
a thousand fold. 



THE DESOLATED HOME. 247 

" How sweet the thought that our darling child 
is now in heaven ! How does her soul, so full of 
music here, now burst forth in the songs of the 
redeemed ! How does the pure and poetic spirit 
that glowed upon us out of her large, melting 
eyes, now find full scope in the flowers and 
fragrance and music of heaven ! And when we 
are on our homeward-bound way, will she not be 
the first to welcome us ? And the next, may 
they not be our parents and brothers and sisters ? 
Are there not family groups in heaven ? Are 
the ties of natural affection annihilated just 
when human nature is perfected ? Does their 
sanctification destroy them ? And if not de- 
stroyed, are they overborne by the higher and 
universal affection which binds all to the blessed 
and adorable Lord Grod ? If so, the effect of 
religion will be altogether different in heaven 
from what it is here. No ! nothing good is there 
overborne, or cast into the shade by anything 
else that is good. All natural ties to the creature, 
there as here, will be subordinate to the princi- 
ple of love to Grod, but not destroyed, or weakened 
by it. Rather they will receive strength and 
permanency by the perfection of the whole nature 



248 THE BROKEN BUD. 



in love and holiness. Sweet Caro ! Blessed 
Saviour! Oh! may we be prepared to join our 
child, and with her in heaven, spend our eternity 
in love and praise and worship !" 

Says Archbishop Leighton to a bereaved 
brother, " It was a sharp stroke of a pen that 
told me your pretty Johnny was dead. Sweet 
thing ! and is he so quickly laid asleep ? Happy 
he ! Although we shall have no more the pleas- 
ure of his lisping and laughing, he shall have 
no more the pain of being sick, nor of dying, 
and hath wholly escaped the riper and deeper 
griefs of riper years, this poor life being nothing 
but a linked chain of many sorrows and many 
deaths." 

Surely then, may we say, 

"Well done of God, to halve the lot, 

And give her all the sweetness ! 
To us, the empty room and cot ; 

To her, the heaven's completeness. 
To us, the grave ; — to her, the rows 

The mystic palm-trees spring in ; 
To ns, the silence in the house ; 

To her, the choral singing." 

Our child trod a weary, rugged path — beset 



THE DESOLATED HOME. 249 

with snares, — where it would inevitably have 
sinned and suffered, if indeed it had not gone 
forever astray. But its pilgrimage is forgiven it. 
With scarcely a taste of the sin- mingled draught, 
it has been taken to glory. Spared the toil and 
the conflict, — in its hand hath been placed the 
triumphal palm, and on its head, the crown of 
victory. 

"Far other land thy happy feet have trod, 
Far other scenes thy tender soul has known, — 
The golden city of the eternal God, 
The rainbow splendors of the eternal throne. 
Through the pearl-gate, how lightly hast thou flown ! 
The streets of lucid gold — the chrysolite 
Foundations have received thee, dearest one ! 
That thought alone can break affliction's night ; 
Feeling that thou art blest, iny heart again is light. 

Thanks to the framer of life's mystery ! 
Thanks to the illuminator of the grave ! 
Vainly on time's obscure and tossing sea, 
Hope did I seek, and comfort did I crave ; 
But He who made, neglecteth not to save. — 
My child ! thou has allied me to the blest : 
I cannot fear what thou did'st meekly brave ; 
And heaven is doubly heaven, with thee, with thee pos- 
sessed." 

William Howitt. 



€\t Innr nf Innhting. 



"Mourner^ joy ! an angel's pathway 

Brightens with thy treasured flower ; 
Wings unseen its perfume bear thee ? 
Sweetest in life's darkest hour." 



" There was a lovely little flower 
I fondly hoped to rear, 
I saw it at the matin hour 
Sweetly expanding here. 

I looked again, my flower was gone — 
I knew it must be dead. — 

I put a robe of sackcloth on, 
Strewed ashes on my head, 

And sat me down to wail and weep 
That thus my flower had died, — 

And in my sorrow fell asleep. 
There stood one by my side, 

Who told me of my lovely flower, 

And showed me where it grows, 

Beyond the scorching summer's power 

Where winter never blows. 
* # * * # 



THE HOUR OF DOUBTING. 251 

I woke in tears, which soon were dry, 

And knelt me down to pray, 
And then I laid my ashes by, 

And flung my weeds away." 

Does the mother who weeps for her early- 
called, ever doubt of her lost child's happiness ? 
Then indeed is she called to pass through an or- 
deal of fire. 

To be told that she must not inquire into 
these mysteries, cannot stifle the imploring voice 
of nature, — the agonizing cries of the heart. 
That voice will be heard, those cries will question 
heaven. Is there no reply ? Lo, One answer- 
eth, who spake as never man spake. " Of such 
is the kingdom of heaven." Blessed, thrice 
blessed words, that sink into the core of the sor- 
rowing heart ! 

But abundant as is the consolation to be found 
in the Scriptures on this subject, yet in hours of 
exhaustion and distress, the afflicted mother may 
not always be able to discover it. She is troubled 
with uncertainty as to the happiness of her early- 
lost. And she may also at times be disturbed by 
doubts with regard to their mutual recognition in 
the future life. 



252 THE BROKEN BUB. 

The following extracts from letters received 
during our season of trial, are here introduced, 
in the hope that they may prove consoling to 
some doubting mother. 

"My dear Child, 

" I think there is enough in the infinite love 
and compassion of Grod, and in the truths of his 
word, to inspire a cheering, supporting hope re- 
specting children. It appears from several pas- 
sages of Scripture, that Grod, instead of falling 
short of what the holy and benevolent wish for, 
intends to do exceedingly more than they can 
ask or think ; and that they will say, the one 
half was not told them. 

" As to the intercourse of saints in heaven, and 
their perfect recognition of one another, and the 
peculiar enjoyment arising from their relation- 
ship on earth, and the recollection of what took 
place during their mortal life, — on these points I 
have no doubt. In my view, the Bible warrants 
this." 

The following is from a letter written by a be- 
loved missionary, who has long been in his Mas- 
ter's service in foreign lands. 



THE HOUR OF DOUBTING. 253 



" I know indeed how to weep with those who 
lay their dearest earthly treasures into the dust. 
And how would these hearts be riven, were it 
not that when we part with these little ones, we 
may hope to meet with them again in a higher 
and a glorious world ! This hope, most firm, 
most cheering, I enjoy, and that, as I unwaver- 
ingly believe, on sound Scripture ground. 

" I believe that all children who die before the 
development of moral agency, are included in the 
work of Christ, and are saved by him. 

" If this my view is correct, then the infants 
and the little children, have also a Saviour, 
otherwise they have none. Then, I can under- 
stand the conduct of Christ towards children, 
and his remarks concerning them. Then I see 
a reason why half of our race, and especially 
those in heathen lands, die in infancy. Then, 
heaven is not empty of souls, comparatively to 
hell, and Satan is not the more successful com- 
petitor, and Christ the less so, but contrariwise. 
Then the choir of " babes and sucklings" in 
heaven, is not a thin and feeble little group ; but 
a glorious host, of whom " strength" is well " or- 
dained," of whom powerful songs of praise will 



254 THE BROKEN BUD. 



be heard in heaven. Then many other subjects, 
more distinctly connected with these, appear in a 
harmony and symmetry, worthy of the economy 
of the grace of God in Christ on earth. 

" Your's most truly." 

" Nothing but the cup which the blessed Gos- 
pel mingles for the trembling lips of parental 
anguish, can really soothe and heal the wounds 
that death so deeply inflicts. In the Gospel 
estimate, the lost and the loved are not a mere 
speck as the world counts extension. Years and 
corporeal magnitude constitute an utterly incom- 
petent unit of measure wherewith to estimate 
the real magnitude and worth of an immortal 
spirit. In the measurement of the Gospel, a 
child may die an hundred years old ! To its 
spirit, released from earthly bondage, the gates 
of the blessed are opened as freely and as joy- 
ously as for the martyr with his crown. Why 
should we fail to see the bond which secures 
this glorious issue, in the unchangeable covenant 
of God ? If the bond was sure and steadfast to 
the father of the faithful and his offspring after 
him, even amidst their sins of deepest dye, and 



THE HOUR OF DOUBTING. 255 



countless aggravations, — why should the Chris- 
tian parent doubt, or fail to recognize in the dew- 
drops of God's baptismal seal, the full-arched 
bow of promise, as it rests upon the brow of in- 
fancy ? 

"It is often a source of comfort to me, that 
however we may misapprehend the freeness and 
fulness of (rod's blessings, conveyed through his 
well-beloved Son, it cannot make them to be of 
none effect, at least to the lambs of his flock. 
They will, nevertheless, find their place in his 
bosom. We can say with far other assurance 
than could Balak of old, 'I wot that those whom 
Christ blesses are blessed!' And though the eyes 
that once looked joy and gladness into our hearts, 
beam no more upon us here, yet we may rest as- 
sured that they are opened upon a brighter and 
better world. We hear no more indeed the ac- 
cents of those lips eloquent of kindness and affec- 
tion, but we shall yet hear them in utterances 
of everlasting joy and gladness, when we are 
permitted to rejoin them in the home of the 
blessed." 

" There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
But one dead lamb is there ! 



There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
But has one vacant chair. 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead. 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! these severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps, 
What seem to us but dim, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! what seems so is transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection — 

But gone unto that school, 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian-angels led, 
Safe from temptation, — safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives whom we call dead. 



THE HOUR OF DOUBTING. 257 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when with rapture wild, 
In our embraces, we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion, 
Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times, impetuous with emotion, 

And anguish long-suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean 

That cannot be at rest ; 

We will be patient ; and assuage the feeling 

We cannot wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing 

The grief that must have way." 

H. W. Longfellow. 

in 



€§i /Inter Inst in tij? 98 nit. 



" Oh ! say not 'twere a keener blow 
To lose a child of riper years, 
You cannot feel a mother's woe, 

You cannot dry a mother's tears ; 
The girl who rears a sickly plant, 
Or cherishes a wounded dove, 
Will love them most, while most they need 
The watchfulness of love." 

T. H. Bayly. 



It is not an uncommon feeling, that the death 
of young children is but a light affliction. But 
that it is difficult to determine whether it costs 
the heart more to part with a younger or an 
older child, is the testimony of many from whom 
both have been sundered. 

Says the Rev. Thomas Randall to a friend, 
" I have had spoilings of these pleasant things 
often, and find it hard to tell whether the separa- 
tion of the younger or the elder branches be 
most wounding to the root. In my sympathy 
on such an occasion, rather than attempt to al- 
leviate sorrow by insisting on the youth of the 



THE FLOWER LOST IN THE BUD. 259 

child, I would allow the cause of anguish to be 
great, and I would seek to introduce cheerfulness 
and joy in the midst of such scenes of darkness 
and heaviness, only from the unchangeable and 
everlasting Grospel, which turns all our darkness 
into light, and our sorrows into joys." 

A gardener is watching with special care for 
the unfolding of a rare and beautiful flower. He 
gives it the sunshine and the dew, and tenderly 
protects it from the biting frost. "With delight 
he looks upon his delicate bud, not only beauti- 
ful in itself, but enclosing in its deep heart a 
beauty and fragrance which will gladden every 
beholder. While thus cherishing his darling 
bud, despite all his watchfulness, the blighting 
frost withers it upon its stem, — it droops and 
dies. He sits by it and mourns. Your ministry 
of comfort is ill-suited to his case, if the burden 
of it is — " you have lost only a bud." " True," 
he replies, " but it was such a bud, and the 
flower was in the bud. Have I not then lost 
both in one, and that without the delight of see- 
ing my flower in bloom?" 

When a young person of promise is stricken 
down in the midst of his prospects of useful- 



260 THE BROKEN BUD. 



ness, the parent's sorrow is not only shared by a 
large circle of attached friends, but the society 
with which, in a thousand ways, the departed 
had become interlinked, has also sustained a 
loss. This general sentiment of regret — this 
spontaneous outflow of sympathy — is a solace to 
the bereaved heart. And there is conveyed with 
it the consoling assurance, that the buried child 
will long live in the memory of many, whose 
grief, if not so deep, yet gives a true response to 
its own. But how different is it in the death of 
a young child ! Society has sustained no loss ; — 
the world scarcely pauses to note the burial, in 
which, with the dearly cherished remains, are 
also buried the present joys, and the future 
hopes of the weeping parents. The sympathy 
expressed, is elicited entirely by the parents' 
grief, for no one else feels its loss. Conse- 
quently, there is less sympathy for the mourn- 
ers, and less allowance for their intense sorrow. 
Especially is this likely to be the case in respect 
to the mother, whose life was bound up in the 
life of her child. It was her little world, — in 
which, with peculiar cares, she had also peculiar 
joys. In her heart of hearts she feels stricken. 



THE FLOWER LOST IN THE BUD. 261 

She has lost the idol of her love, — one from 
whom she hoped for support and solace and joy 
in future years. Others have had the flower as 
well as the bud, but in losing one, she has lost 
both. And as one after another attempts conso- 
lation by suggesting how comparatively small a 
trial it is to lose so young a child, she with- 
draws more and more into her own spirit, feel- 
ing that all memory of her lost one, — even the 
recollection of its name, will soon have passed 
away from all but herself, and its sweet image 
silently appeals to her with touching eloquence. 

Oh ! soon from every heart, mama, 

My memory will pass, 
And who will think of that lone spot 

Where springs the waving grass? 
That closely curtained-up earth-bed, 
Where now I rest my weary head. 

For I was but a little child, 

A bud, not yet a flower, 
When plucked by Death, and borne away 

Far from thy loving bower. 
And none, alas, will mourn for this, 
For who a tender bud will miss? 



262 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Then keep me in thy heart, mama ? 

There let me cherished be, 
For nowhere else have I a place. 

Remains no trace of me 
If not within thy heart's deep celL 
Oh, break not then, this only spell. 

My child ! thy beauteous picture hangs 
In memory's mourning hall, — 

Set in a frame of wroughten gold 
On her reflecting wall. 

Oh ! never will I part with this, 

My own, my cherished bud of bliss ! 

Sweet broken bud ! each passing day 
Strengthens thy cherished spell, 

In joy or grief, in weal or woe, 
Still thou shalt with me dwell. 

I'll wear thee in my bosom's core 

Till this long, weeping night is o'er. 



€)i <§tnt %mtih 



" The grass above thy grave is green, 
And fresh as hope was wont to be ; 
But never in our home, I ween, 

Will joy shoot forth as cheeringly 
As erst it did, my gentle child, 
When thy dear eyes upon us smiled." 




I stood beside the grassy bed 
Wherein my Carrie slept, 



264 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



And on the marble slab, I read 
Her precious name, and wept 

A broken bud was chiselled there, 

Upon the tablet bright, 
Meet emblem of my blossom fair, 

Touched by the cold death-blight. 

Her head lies on the damp earth-clod ; 

Oh ! lone her place of rest, 
Who, like a fairy, our earth trod, 

Or nestled to my breast ! 

But why weep I in anguish deep, 

Above thy peaceful grave ? 
There doth bright sunshine softly sleep, 

There sweetest wild flowers wave. 

Still lingering o'er thy verdant bed, 
The golden sunset glows, — 

"Where lowly lies thy fair young head 
In calm and deep repose. 

And bright the halo that moonbeams 
Wreathe round that marble pure, 

Which softly, kindly on me gleams, 
My faith to reassure. 

Like to some white-robed spirit-form, 
Stands thy memorial-stone, 



THE GRAVE VISITED. 265 

A guardian-angel in the storm, 
Watching thy slumbers lone. 

And round thy grave, kind spirit-friends 

Their gentle vigils keep, 
While love, still hovering o'er thee bends, 

As here I sit and weep. 

Now Night enwraps her mourning pall 

Softly around my dead, 
And gently, child, her tear-drops fall 

Upon thy lonely bed. 

Sweet incense steals upon the air, 

From nature's fragrant breath, 
While spirit-voices murmur there, 

The lullaby of death. 

Around me floats thy requiem low, 

Breathed from some angel-lyre, 
While deep within the embers glow 

Of sorrow's hidden fire. 

Alas, my child ! my buried child ! 

My anguish ever burneth, 
And in its desolation wild, 

For thee, my heart still yearneth. 

Oh ! ne'er from grief's o'er brimming fount 
Shall cease the tear to flow, 



266 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Till near thy home on yonder mount 
I see its golden glow. 

What a place for meditation is the grave of a 
loved one ! When time has soothed the first con- 
vulsive agony, and we can bear to think of the 
precious form as mouldering into dust, what a 
consoling voice comes to us from under the green 
sod, whispering of a bright home beyond ! And 
as we listen, an unseen hand wipes away our 
tears. Holy is the spot, my child, where thou 
sleepest! There, I seem to hear the music of 
thy wings, — to see thy angel-face, — to catch the 
spirit of the better land. And yet — 

" At times, impetuous with emotion, 
And anguish long-suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean 
That cannot be at rest," — 

and tears, wrung from its core, fall upon the 
grave of our departed one, while our spirits 
chant anew her sad requiem. 

Child, our deathless love is glowing, 
As we chant thy mournful dirge, 

And our bitter tears are flowing, — 
Flowing with grief's swelling surge. 



THE GRAVE VISITED. 267 

Rest thee, daughter, rest thee sweetly 

With4he quiet, quiet dead. 
Thou art slumbering, slumbering meetly 

For thy lowly, lowly bed. 

Calmly, calmly thou art sleeping 

Deep within the shadowy tomb ; 
But above, there's weeping, weeping, — 

And a night of hopeless gloom. 
Weeping for the flower that perished 

In the very morn of life ; — 
Weeping for the hopes so cherished, 

Dying in thy dying strife ; — 

Weeping for the dove that nestled 

In a loving, loving nest, 
Which with death has wrestled, wrestled, 

Till it drooped upon his breast ; — 
Weeping for the casket broken, — 

For the precious gem we've lost ; — 
Weeping over many a token, — 

Weeping, weeping, tern pest- tost ; — 

For the sunshine of our dwelling, 

For our gushing music fled ; — 
Oh ! the tears are ever welling, — 

Welling from their fountain-head. 
Weeping, weeping, ever weeping, — 

Weeping for the early-dead ; 



268 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Grief, dear child, is ever keeping 
Vigils o'er thy lowly bed. 

But our weepings do not wake thee 

From thy dreamless, stirless sleep; — 
And our tempests do not shake thee 

In thy death-rest calm and deep. 
But the while our tears are flowing, — 

Flowing fast upon thy grave, — 
Swiftly, swiftly we are going 

Onward on life's crested wave. 

And the while grief's showers are falling,- 

Falling fast upon thy head, — 
A low voice is calling, calling, 

" Thou art hasting to thy dead. 
Death will end thy bitter mourning, 

Death will still thy throbbing breast, 
Hush thy spirit's ceaseless yearning 

Into deep, unbroken rest." 

Rest thee then, my faded blossom, 

While the storms are fleeting by ;— 
Rest thee in earth's quiet bosom, 

Resting in her bosom lie. 
O'er thee cherubs bright are winging,— 

Winging gently o'er thee, love ; — 
O'er thee voices sweet are singing, — 

Singing, " Rest thee, rest thee, dove. 17 



$rihttiJB. 



" Weep not for her ! Her memory is the shrine 

Of pleasing thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers, 
Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline, 

Sweet as the song of birds among the flowers, 
Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light, 
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night ; 
Weep not for her !" 



" Rise, said the master, come unto the feast ; 
She heard the call and came with willing feet, 
But thinking it not otherwise than meet 
For such a bidding, to put on her best, 
She is gone from us for a few short hours 
Into her bridal-closet, there to wait 
For the unfolding of the palace-gate, 
That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. 
We have not seen her yet, though we have been 
Full often to her chamber-door, and oft 
Have listened underneath the postern green, 
And laid fresh flowers and whispered short and soft. 
But she hath made no answer, and the day 
From the clear west, is fading fast away." 

Henry Alford. 



270 THE BROKEN BUD. 



In our season of sorrow, our hearts were often 
soothed by letters of condolence from absent 
friends. These letters were comforting, not only 
from their expressions of sympathy, but also on 
account of the pleasant tribute borne by many of 
them to the memory of our departed child. Ex- 
tracts from a few of these letters may not be 
without interest to other bereaved mothers. 

" My dearly beloved Children, 

" The scene through which we have just 
passed has taken strong hold of my heart. 
# # # If J walked to my grove, I could 
see where the dear child went with me, or ran 
after me, with her pleasant face and affectionate 
feelings. And in the house, I could see where 
she sat, or played, and I could weep at the 
melancholy recollections. But then I considered 
that the blessed Jesus had taken the loved one to 
himself, and would henceforth leave us nothing 
in the way of care and solicitude and labor for 
her good. He will take the whole care of her, I 
said, — of her precious soul, and of her precious 
body too. Not one of her faculties or interests, — 
not one of her susceptibilities to pleasure, — not 



one particle of her sleeping bodily frame will be 
forgotten or neglected. The sweet child is well 
off, — well provided for, — free from disease and 
danger and sin. And she is not separated from 
her loving parents and friends. They will love 
her still, and she will love them, and love them 
with a purer, sweeter affection than she could 
feel in this cold world. And she will be growing 
in everything lovely, and if her parents are per- 
mitted by and by to go to the world above, how 
improved will they find her to be, — how beauti- 
ful, — how happy ! 

"Your affectionate and sympathizing father." 

" I can hardly express to you the feelings 
which the affliction so lately fallen upon you, in 
the departure of your dear, dear Caro, awakened 
within me. She had been so frequently the sub- 
ject of my thoughts, that I seemed to possess in 
the memory of her affectionate and winning 
ways, the liveliest image left to me here of my 
own most bitterly lamented C. Most deeply have 
I sympathized with you in this trial. I well 
know the pangs it must have cost you to part 
with so engaging and precious a treasure. And 



272 THE BROKEN BUD. 



I know too how difficult it is so far to arrest the 
flow of tears, as to search with speedy success 
for those divine resources, which lie near to the 
sorrowful and heart-broken. But it is ungrateful 
long to forget how meet it is that our most 
precious treasures should thus be cared for and 
secured. 

"You, my dear friends, may well say, 'The 
bird has escaped out of the snare of the fowler ; 
the net is broken, and the bird is forever free.' 
Oh thou ' lovely and loving little angel,' well 
may we felicitate thee upon the unutterable joy 
of thy unfading crown ! 

" Yours affectionately." 

" I seem so plainly to see your darling with 
those earnest eyes so full of wistful tenderness. 
A thousand winning ways live in my remem- 
brance. I think she had a remarkable degree 
of affectionateness, intelligence, and sensibility. 
She had all the indications of true genius, — 
genius which, I trust, has unfolded its wings in 
that world where nothing can obstruct its on- 
ward and upward progress. 

" There was about her so much more of the 



TRIBUTES. 273 



within than the without, as any one could tell 
who looked at her fine forehead, and large, melt- 
ing eyes. Oh ! I wish I could speak even one 
word of consolation. But you are consoled. 

" Always yours." 

" I know how closely this darling child had 
entwined herself around your hearts, and how 
hard must have been the sundering of such ties. 
Oh ! it is true that 

" The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go." 

I am sure all that is lovely and winning met in 
dear little Carrie. So affectionate and artless was 
she, so honest and confiding, that to see her was 
to love. Her beautiful image is constantly be- 
fore me, and it seems to me that, with a slight 
artist's skill, I could transfer it to canvass, fresh, 

living and bright. 

" Truly yours." 

" I never think of your loss bat with emotions 
of sorrow. The dear little cherub won her way 
to my heart with her sweet look of a loving spirit. 

But 

" Ever the richest, tenderest glow- 
Sets round the autumnal sun, — 
18 



274 THE BROKEN BUD, 



But there sight fails, — no heart may know 
The bliss when life is done " 

Incurably hard must be our hearts if the accu- 
mulation of our dearest treasures there, does not 
win for the land of their dwelling, the most en- 
dearing aspect of ' Home, sweet Home.' 

'• Yours affectionately. " 

" My dear Louise, 

" I want you should know how fondly your 
departed sister is remembered by others ; and that 
even those who saw her but seldom, can never 
forget her sweet, expressive face, and little win- 
ning ways. All that was lovely and beautiful 
seemed to blend in her person and character, and 
she could not fail to win the love of all who saw 
her. She was very affectionate and confiding in 
her manner, and so honest and frank in her whole 
appearance, that it seemed as if you could read 
her very soul. 

" The last time I saw her was but a few weeks 
before her sickness. This last remembrance, 
my dear Louise, is my abiding one. She is now 
before me as she was then in all her loveliness, 
— her large, earnest eyes, beaming with happi- 



TRIBUTES. 275 



nesSj her beautiful, brown hair, her fine forehead, 
her cheeks flushed with health, and every feature 
radiant with joy. 

" When she first came that morning, she 
seemed a little thoughtful, being among stran- 
gers ; and often asked for her father. But after 
awaking from sleep, she was perfectly at home, 
and happy as possible. She couldn't talk half 
fast enough to express her joy, and amused us 
constantly with her sayings and doings. I never 
saw so much enthusiasm and earnestness de- 
picted on the features, for her expression changed 
with every passing moment. She seemed per- 
fectly well, and perfectly happy, and when I 
kissed her good-bye, how little I thought it was 
a last one ! But our Father loved her better 
than we did, and so he took her home to him- 
self. 

" Your affectionate friend." 

" The first time I ever saw your little Carrie, 
she was a lovely infant of some eight or nine 
months old. There was about her, even at that 
early age, an undefinable something which at- 
tracted every heart. I know that infants are 



276 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



lovely. But your sweet child seemed peculiarly 
formed to win affection for herself. Those large 
eyes, brimful of earnest tenderness, and that 
fair, expansive brow, on which G-od seemed so 
legibly to have written a promise that the work- 
manship within should be of rare and rich ma- 
terial, — few could look upon them without a feel- 
ing of more than ordinary interest. And how 
often since your darling's departure from this 
scene of blended cloud and sunshine, have I as- 
sociated her with her father's sister, whom I 
never saw but- at that time, yet whose sweet 
countenance and winning manner live in my 
memory. How often have I pictured the child 
whom she so loved, as having been conducted 
by some bright angel to her bosom ! Nay, she 
herself may have been the messenger under 
whose protecting care your lovely bird first 
spread its angel-pinions, as it rose from the mist 
and shade of earth to the pure sunlight of 
heaven. To me her image is almost inseparably 
associated with that of her, who only a few 
brief months preceded her on her returnless 
journey. 

" But my memory reverts more instinctively to 



TRIBUTES. 277 



that last visit, when your precious child, whom, 
for many months I had not seen, seemed to me 
more winning than ever. There was a quiet 
beauty which I had not so observed before. She 
played silently with her toys, more happy than 
many children in a scene of the most joyous 
excitement, content to remain unnoticed, yet 
speaking by her inimitably sweet smile, her 
gratitude for every little attention. 

" I have, since her departure, thought much of 
her reverential deportment at family worship, 
and of the interest she took in religious instruc- 
tion suited to her age. Her love of truth was 
uncommon. It seemed to resist all temptation 
to falsehood. So likewise, was her ready and 
cheerful obedience, and her sweet submission 
when her wishes were not gratified. We know 
not how much the hidden life was acted upon 
by impulses from above. And I often think 
that He who blessed little children on earth, 
may have been gradually drawing the dear child 
to himself. There was about her so much more 
of feeling than she expressed, that we can form 
but little conception of her communings with 
spiritual things. That winning deportment may 



278 THE BROKEN BUD. 



have been the result of special inward teaching. 
The divine Spirit may have brooded over the 
soul, and the gentle virtues which made her so 
lovely, may have been its rich fruits." 

" Yours affectionately." 

" My dear Children, 

" I could say much respecting my dear 
Caro; and I love to dwell upon her lovely qual- 
ities and lovely actions. It appeared to me all 
along that she was remarkably affectionate. In- 
deed she manifested this in an uncommon de- 
gree. Her disposition also was gentle and 
sweet, so that her little heart seemed to be the 
abode of happiness. But I was repeatedly struck 
with her dutifulness, and her ready compliance 
with our wishes. I remember some instances 
which gave me special pleasure at the time, — 
when she was doing something fondly and ear- 
nestly, but which she gave up instantly and 
pleasantly, when I said to her, " My dear, I 
would not do that." I thought her mind was 
very open to religious instruction, and her con- 
science very tender. Indeed, I can hardly con- 
ceive how a little child, early sanctified, would be 



TRIBUTES. 279 



likely to manifest the fruits of the Spirit more 
clearly than she did. It lies in my reflections 
that she was one of Christ's lambs, and that He, 
having a far better right to her, and loving her 
unspeakably more than we, thought proper to 
hasten her thus to his safe and happy fold. And 
there, methinks she is, loving her parents and 
friends more than she could here, and far more 
lovely herself, — enjoying better instruction and 
making more rapid improvement, than would 
have been possible in this earthly state. And it 
is very probable that she has already learned 
many things respecting Christ and heaven, which 
we should delight to hear her tell, and which 
would be quite above what our dull apprehen- 
sions have ever reached. 

" Your affectionate, sympathizing father." 

" In a state like this, in a world where so 
much of comparative coldness, indifference, or 
unkindness is encountered, how poorly able do 
we find ourselves to spare those objects which 
were wont to light up our abode with affection 
and warmth ! And yet our heavenly Father 
knoweth that we have need of these things. Yet 



280 THE BROKEN BUD. 

he constantly removes them from us ; not be- 
cause He is ignorant of our love, nor is He in- 
different to the bitter pangs of separation, but for 
reasons infinitely wise and merciful. 

" In my thoughts, — ever busy, gathering up 
fragments of a cherished 'vase,' I find always 
some of yours included, — reminding me that the 
flowers are together transplanted to a more genial 
garden, to expand in perennial fragrance and 
beauty. I assure you, it is always with un- 
affected sorrow and regret, that I think of your 
dear Caro's charming face, so full of affection 
and so loveable, thus early veiled from our 
sight. I do not remember to have met any 
child that so completely won its way to a most 
pleasing remembrance in my heart of hearts as 
she did. 

" The world, in its ministry of comfort, would 
doubtless urge that in comparison with other 
comforts and blessings, still vouchsafed to us, 
she was but a speck upon the ocean of life, — a 
beautiful flower indeed, that has happily escaped 
the ills of a cold and uncongenial atmosphere ; 
and that such thoughts should hush the voice of 
lamentation. This, however, must be a poor 



TRIBUTES. 281 



anodyne to a heart wounded in its tenderest 
fibres, that savors of nothing but loss. 

" But I trust that He who begins even here to 
wipe away tears, will have so cleared your spir- 
itual vision, as that you begin to gather other 
fruits than those of sadness and sorrow unmiti- 
gated. 

" Yours faithfully." 



The following pieces were written by sympa- 
thizing friends on the occasion of our dear 
Carrie's death. 

"CARRIE." 

" It must be sweet in childhood to give back 
The spirit to its Maker." 

" Dying in beauty ! ere Sorrow had taken 
One tint from the rose that lay warm on her cheek ; 

Before the dark shadows that follow life's morning, 
Had shrouded our blossom so lovely and meek 1 

Dying in beauty ! though now, alas, wasted, 
Round were her limbs in their delicate grace ; 

Fair glowed her cheek with the flush of enjoyment, 
Bright was the sunshine that laughed in her face. 



282 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



Dying in youth ! — not decrepit and aged, 
Weary and earth- worn and sick of the strife ; 

Called to the grave in the morn of existence, 
Summoned to Death from the threshold of Life ! 

Dying in peace ! on her fair, tranquil bosom, 
Kest her white lingers so wasted and thin ; 

Over her features a calm smile is straying, 
Type of the peace of God, reigning within. 

Dying beloved — not unwept and uncared for ; 

Tears fall in showers on the face of the child, 
Under the snowy sheet dreaming so peacefully, 

Meeting strange Death with an aspect so mild. 

Breathe in her ear the dear hymns of her childhood, 
When she awakes from her death-like repose ; 

Press on her forehead sweet kisses of fondness, 
Place in her bosom a half-blossomed rose. 

Smile on her pleasantly — tell her not gloomily 
Death, the grim Tyrant, is coming anon ; 

Say to her, ' Darling, an Angel is waiting, 
Eager to take thee where Jesus has gone.' 

Gently and quietly smooth down her pillow, 

Gather fresh roses to lay in her hand ; 
Soon will her weary soul, loosed and unfettered, 

Plume its faint wing for the sweet spirit-land ! 



TBIBUTES. 283 



Dim o'er her forehead — her pale, dewy forehead — 
Cluster the shadow v waves of her hair — 

Smooth them not, though it be never so tenderly, 
Leave them untouched in their loveliness there. 

Close on her cheek lie her fair, blue-veined eyelids, 
Hiding the beauty that slumbers beneath ; 

Tremulous now with the throbbings of weakness, 
Soon they will rest in the quiet of Death ! 

Peace to thy slumber, thou lovely and stricken one, 
Peace — though thou wake from it only to die ! 

Strange that the spoiler should breathe on such freshness ! 
Strange that such beauty in darkness should lie ! 

Gently and quietly smooth down her pillow, 

Gather fresh roses to lay in her hand ; 
Soon will her happy soul, loosed and unfettered, 

Plume its white wing for the sweet spirit-land ! 

Dying in Childhood, in Peace, and in Beauty — 

Dying with Love o'er the dark way to shine ! — 
Who, thou sweet child, while they wept, would not envy ? 

Who would not wish for an exit like thine i n 

Caro. 

" Sweet Carrie then for aye has passed away. 
From thy loved earthly home no more we hear 
The gentle tones of that dear melting voice, 
No more we meet thy loving, glad caress. 



284 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Thy meek and quiet spirit dwells no more 
Where its sweet virtues made so much of joy. 
Oh, thou wert brightly fair ! Those earnest eyes, 
That open, thoughtful brow, that sunny smile 
Wreathing those ruby lips, — all lovely were, 
But lovelier far were the rich gems within. 
A fountain stirred in thy young, guileless breast, 
Of ardent, quenchless love ; and there lay hid 
The germ of thought unfolding every hour, — 
Of thought so full of beauty and of grace, 
And so instinct with rare and sweet imaginings, 
As gave rich promise for the time to come. 

And one bright jewel lay unsullied there, 
Whose lustre mocks the sun's most brilliant ray. 
Truth lent its beauty to the soul within, 
And to these, artless nature gave a charm 
Such as naught else can give, however fair. 
Oh ! who can say how close it linked thy soul, 
E'en in this dawn of being to the God 
Who gave thee life, and in whose world of truth 
Thou now dost taste such ecstacy of bliss ? 

And yet we sorrow for our precious child. 
We miss thee, darling, all these long, sad hours ; 
And oh ! our hearts do yearn to hear of thee, 
To have some tidings from thy sunny home. 

Do angel-voices lull thee to thy rest ? 
Dost mingle with the loved ones gone before ? 



TRIBUTES. 285 



Art ever in his presence, whom to know 
Is love, and joy, and bliss ? Oh, how we long 
To catch a glimpse of our sweet cherub now! 
But we can joy to know that thou art blest, 
And so we check our tears, and strive anew 
To lay our choicest offering at his feet, 
Who claims no sacrifice, but what we owe." 

L. 

" Lord, thou didst lend to me a little while 
A blossom sweet and fair ; 
Upon it beamed the sunshine's golden smile, 
For it the dews of heaven took gentle care, 
And softly round it breathed the fragrant air. 

It was not in full bloom, but I had hope 

In future days to see 
Beneath my care its blushing petals ope ; 
Each day the bud I lifted tenderly, 
That its sweet perfumes might ascend to thee. 

And then, Lord, came thy message, — I must part 

From the dear blossom, l oh, 
A little longer yet !' with fainting heart 
I cried, ' let me watch o'er it till it grow 
More meet in thy fair garden, Lord, to blow.' 

Then a soft voice ; — ' the crown which 'midst those bowers 
The Lord loves most to wear, 



286 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Is woven of such half-blown, tender flowers 
As that of thine, plucked ere the noontide air 
Hath stolen its sweets, or laid its shut heart bare.' 

Tearfully then I gave it back, to be 

Wreathed with thy flowery band ; 
And when, dear Lord, thy voice shall summon me 
To thy fair rest — that blossoming Eden-land, 
There shall I see, twined by thy gracious hand, 

In thy bright wreath, my precious bud again ! 

A bud, not opened quite, — 
But folded in soft beauty, with no stain 
Upon its delicate, rose-tinted white, 
And its deep heart still closed against the radiant light. 

And then, Lord, since so many blossoms fair, 

In thy full garland rest, — 
Oh, wilt thou not, when thou shalt see me there, 
In thy pure, spotless robe of glory drest, 
Give me my bud again to bloom upon my breast !" 

E. 



%tiun nf spring. 



" Thou giv'st me flowers, thou giv'st me songs ;— bring back 
The love that I have lost." 



" The Spring, in its loveliness dressed, 

Will return with its music-winged hours, 
And kissed by the breath of the sweet south-west, 

The buds shall burst out in flowers ; 
And the flowers her grave-sod above, 

Though the sleeper heneath recks it not, 
Shall thickly be strewn by the hand of Love, 

To cover with beauty the spot. — 
Meet emblems are they of the pure one and bright, 
Who faded and fell with so early a blight. 

Ay, the Spring will return, but the blossom 

That bloomed in our presence the sweetest, 
By the spoiler is borne from the cherishing bosom 

The loveliest of all and the fleetest ! 
The music of stream and of bird 

Shall come back when the Winter is o'er ; 
But the voice that was dearest to us shall be heard 

In our desolate chambers no more ! 



The sunlight of May on the waters shall quiver, — 
The light of her eye hath departed forever !" 

William H. Burleigh. 

Why is it, when Spring has put on her robes 
of beauty, and is regaling us with music and 
fragrance, — why is it, — in the midst of her sweet 
sunshine and melody, that memory is ever 
mournfully whispering to us of the past ? Alas ! 
we turn from all she brings to what she cannot 
bring. 

Spring is the resurrection of nature, and while 
everything else that died with the sere and yellow 
leaf, has sprung up into new life and beauty, the 
darling of our hearts, shrouded in her burial sod, 
still sleeps on under the cold mantle of the grave. 
The general call to awake, she heeds not. 

" Though Spring may pour 
All fragrant things on the land's green breast 
And the glorious earth like a bride be dressed, 
It will win her back no more." 

Nothing — no, not the renewed pleadings which 
gush from a mother's heart, — nothing can awa- 
ken the sleeper. And the contrast between the 
bright, blue sky, — the exulting earth, and our 



RETURN OF SPRING. 289 

own desolation, seems a mockery of our sorrow. 
This want of sympathy from nature, and the 
memories of past joyous seasons, weigh upon the 
spirit with an indescribable oppression. Yes, 
Spring awakes the dancing leaves and the laugh- 
ing flowers, — she awakes silvery voices and rush- 
ing waters ; — 

| " But what awak'st thou in the heart, oh Spring ? 

The human heart with all its dreams and sighs ? 
Too much ! oh there, too much ! we know not well 

Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, 
What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell, 

Gush for the faces we no more may see ! 
How are we haunted in thy wind's low tone, 

By voices that are gone ! 
Looks of familiar love, that never more, 

Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, 
Past words of welcome to our household door, 

And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet — 
Spring ! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, 

Why, why reviv'st thou these ? 
Vain longings for the dead ! — why come they back 

With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms ?" 

But saddening to the bereaved heart as is this 
bright season, yet it is not without its consola- 

19 



290 THE BROKEN BUD. 



tions. It foretokens that after the long night of 
the grave, our buried dead shall awake from 
their dreamless sleep. On that bright, predicted 
morning, those slumbering forms, touched by 
the quickening spirit, will arise, and clothed 
with immortal beauty, ascend to be ever with 
the Lord. 

And while we are still sowing in tears on this 
thistle-field of life, how soothing the thought, 
that their spirits have already reached that land 
where reigns one eternal Spring ;— where "Grod 
shall wipe away all tears from their eyes ;" and 
" there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, 
nor crying, nor any more pain." 

Sustained then by the assurance of our loved 
ones' blessedness, and cheered by the hope of 
the resurrection morning, let us walk trustingly 
over life's chequered road, learning a lesson alike 
from the sunshine and from the cloud, which are 
here so often blended. 

" Yes, beauty dwells in all our paths, — but sorrow too is 
there, 

How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still 
summer air ! 



RETURN OF SPRING. 291 

When we cany our sick hearts abroad amidst the joy- 
ous things, 

That through the leafy places glance on many colored 
wing's, 

"With shadows from the past, we fill the happy wood- 
land shades, 

And a mournful memory of the dead, is with us in the 
glades ; 

And our dream-like-fancies lend the wind an echo's 
plaintive tone, 

Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone. 

Yet oft, alas ! too much, too soon, despondingly we 

yield ! 
A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field. 
A sweeter, by the birds of heaven — which tell us in 

their flight, 
Of One that through the desert-air forever guides them 



right. 



Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain 

conflicts cease ? 
Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours 

of peace ; 
And feel that by the lights and shades through which 

our pathway lies, 
By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for 

the skies !" Mrs. Hemajsts. 



€§i Ctmngiirg &nnM. 



" A voice in every whisper 

Of the wave, the bough, the air, 
Comes asking for the beautiful, 

And moaning, ' where, oh where ?' " 

Mrs. Hemans. 

u Alas ! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine's glow ; — 
The golden glow, that through thy heart was wont such joy to send ; — 

Woe that it smiles, and not for thee." 

Mrs. Hemans. 



The sad memories and deep yearnings which 
rush upon the bereaved heart at the return of 
Spring, do not vanish with the dreamy Summer 
months. In the singing of the birds, and all the 
pleasant sights and sounds of Summer, there is 
ever an under-tone breathing sad music into the 
mourning spirit. The glad voice hushed forever, 
yet lingers in our ear ; the bright form sleeping 
upon the bosom of the earth, is still bounding at 
our side. The tear may not fall so frequently 
from the eye, but the heart weeps on in silence. 
Thus slowly and sadly do the months pass 
round, each season laden with its own peculiar 



THE CHANGING SEASONS. 293 

memories and sorrows, each week and each day- 
bearing its own peculiar grief. And as the year 
wears on, our sense of loss becomes but the 
keener and the deeper. Nor is this necessarily 
inconsistent with the spirit of acquiescence, or 
the improvement of affliction. If the wound 
were immediately healed, where would be the 
purifying influence which comes from protracted 
trial ? If affliction soon passes from our minds, 
where is the occasion for continued resignation ? 
Nay, it is not in nature thus easily to forget the 
dead. And religion does not benumb the sensi- 
bilities, but rather quickens and refines them. 
Much is said, and with truth, of the healing hand 
of time. And were not the intensity of grief 
diminished with the gradual lapse of time, the 
heart must break, or the reason give way under 
such a tension of suffering. But although 
through the ordering of our merciful Father, 
time has a soothing power, and the heart, which 
in the freshness of its grief, almost rebelled 
against the chastening hand, gradually finds 
wisdom and love in the blow, and learns more 
and more of the sweetness of submission, yet 
the human heart is variously constituted. While 



294 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



some, by a kind of natural elasticity, soon throw 
off the burden of their sorrow, and recover their 
wonted cheerfulness, others are obliged to make 
far greater struggles in gaining and preserving a 
mere outward composure. 

With all however who have felt bereavement, 
it is true to a greater or less degree, that the year 
must complete its cycle, before the heart becomes 
so used to the garment of affliction as to wear 
it with uniform composure. Yes, dreaded Win- 
ter, when Nature, clad as in her burial-shroud, 
seems to give us a cold sympathy; — gladsome 
Spring, — the carnival of nature, when the bound- 
ing life which flushes the fair face of the earth, 
seems but to mock our desolation ; — voluptuous 
Summer, with her long, dreamlike days, when 
the soft breeze, and the whispering leaves fill us 
with sad recollections, and mournful reveries ; — 
and melancholy Autumn, w 7 ith her sighing trees, 
her sere and yellow leaf, and her gentle sympa- 
thies ; — it is not till all these seasons have slowly 
passed by, and the sad anniversary of our afflic- 
tion has come and gone, that the bereaved heart 
dares to look its sorrow steadily in the face, — is 
able to take the full measurement of its trial. 



THE CHANGING SEASONS. 295 

"With a stricken mother who is prone to live 
in the past, in whose nature the law of associ- 
ation is a strong principle, what a period is the 
first year of grief ! How is her heart ever living 
over and over again by-gone scenes, and at the 
same time, anticipating the dreaded anniversary 
of its affliction, with an instinctive shuddering as 
if the blow were then to be repeated ! 

Thus does the year wear slowly away. And as 
we actually enter upon the season, so anticipat- 
ed, — so dreaded, — who can describe that strange 
sinking of spirit, as if our child were again re- 
stored to us, but only that we may live over the 
parting scenes. We go about as in a dream, 
seeing continually what has long since passed 
away. "We talk of present events, but our 
hearts are in the past, and every feeling concen- 
trates there. Each day, and almost each hour, 
we are able to recall precisely through what sad 
phase of our trial we were passing the year be- 
fore. Thus we go on into the sad, autumnal 
days, which now seem peculiarly congenial. The 
fading, falling leaf has to us a keener signifi- 
cance than ever, as symbolizing the history of 
our broken bud. Like the leaf, our flower had 



296 THE BROKEN BUD. 



its bright spring time of promise, and its tran- 
sient summer of bloom. And like the leaf too, 
it faded and fell with the breath of the autumn 
winds. 

Thus is it with our life. We have our spring- 
time and our summer, and if not borne away 
like a leaf in the autumn of our being, it is but 
to remain desolate,- — to be swept into the grave 
by the winter's blasts. Oh ! sad arc the lessons 
of life, and shall they be fruitless too ? Let the 
bleak winds blow away our green leaves, let the 
hoar-frost blight our buds of joy, yet there still 
remaineth to us the clear sunshine of heaven, — 
there may still be gathered the golden harvest. 

" Because she bears the pearl that makes the shell-fish sore ; 
Be thankful for the grief, that but exalts thee more : 
The sweetest fruit grows not when the tree's sap is full, 
The spirit is not ripe till meaner powers grow dull. 
Spring weaves a spell of odors, colors, sounds ; 
Come, Autumn, free the soul from these enchanted 

bounds. 
My tree was thick with shade ; oh blast, thine office do, 
And strip the foliage off, to let the heaven shine through. 
They're wholly blown away, bright blossoms and green 

leaves ; 
They're brought home to the barn, all colorless the 

sheaves." 



Srangf in tlr* Mtut 

" Oh ! something it is, in our hearts to shrine 
A memory of beauty undimmed as thine. 
To have met the joy of thy speaking face, 
To have felt the spell of thy ' winning' grace, 
To haye lingered before thee, and turned and borne 
One vision away of the cloudless morn,'' 

Mrs. Hemans. 

"The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow 
from which we refuse to be divorced. Every 
other wound, we seek to heal ; every other afflic- 
tion, to forget; but this wound, we consider it a 
duty to keep open, this affliction we cherish and 
brood over in solitude. Who, even when the 
tomb is closing upon one he most loves, — when 
he feels his heart crushed as it were in the 
closing of its portals, would accept of consola- 
tion that must be bought by forgetful ness ? No ! 
the love that survives the tomb is one of the 
noblest attributes of the soul.. If it has its woes, 
it has also its delights ; and when the over- 
whelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle 
tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish, 



298 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



and the convulsive agony over the present ruins 
of all that we most loved, is softened away into 
pensive meditation on all that it was in the days 
of its loveliness, who would root such a sorrow 
from the heart ? Though it may sometimes 
throw a passing cloud even over the brightest 
hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over 
the hour of gloom ; yet who would exchange it 
even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of 
revelry ?" 

Who that has mourned over a loved and lost 
one, cannot testify to the truth of what Irvine 
has so beautifully expressed? To the voice that 
speaks from the grave, though it thrill us with 
nameless anguish, we cannot turn a deaf ear. 
Busy memory, with clamorous voices, may whis- 
per of some selfish neglect, or needless rebuke, — 
bringing vividly to our vision the tearful eye, or 
the saddened countenance of that dear one, 
whom the weeping voice of penitence, or the 
most imploring accents of love can never reach. 
And yet, — though every fibre of the heart quivers 
at memory's touch, — we seek not to forget. Far 
rather would we endure the grief that has changed 
our whole existence. Others, perhaps, have no 



IMAGE IN THE HEART. 299 

suspicion of this change. But they penetrate not 
into the inner sanctuary. They saw us, it may 
be, writhing in the furnace, but to all appear- 
ance we are now as we were before. For although, 
in returning to our ordinary duties, our spirit 
has striven and endured to the utmost, yet our 
external acts may at length have fallen into 
their wonted channel, and the outer current of 
our life again flows on in quietness — perchance 
in cheerfulness. But how differently runs the 
inner current of the soul. There, we feel that a 
silver cord has been loosed, — a golden bowl 
broken. The music that breathed over nature's 
fair face has ceased, — the nameless charm that 
pervaded our existence has passed away. 

" A power is gone from all earth's melodies, 
Which never may return." 

And yet, — though to lose the memory of our 
loved one would leave the heart as it was before 
the douds of sorrow visited it with their wasting 
rains, — yet we would not forget. And though 
memory often arouses anew the tempest of grief, 
calling up from her depths the eye that dwelt on 



300 THE BROKEN BUD. 



us so kindly — the voice that spoke to us so 
fondly, so that we are fain to say, 

" Fill with forgetful ness ! there are, there are 
Voices whose music I have loved too well ; 
Eyes of deep gentleness, — but they are far — 
Never ! — oh — never — in my home to dwell ! 
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul — 
Fill high the oblivious bowl !" 

Yet the wish is hardly breathed, ere love implores, 

" Oh stay- 
Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill, 

I must remember still. 
For their sake, for the dead, — whose image naught 
May dim within the temple of my breast, 
For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought 
May shake or trouble with its own unrest, 
Though the past haunt me as a spirit — yet 

I ask not to forget." 

But while our thoughts are ever of the depart- 
ed, why is it that the hallowed name so seldom 
passes our lips — that we almost shrink from its 
utterance by another ? There is indeed a mourn- 
ful pleasure in communing with those who 
knew and loved our lost one, or who have suffered 



IMAGE IN THE HEART. 301 

like ourselves. But before the aching heart can 
open itself, it puts out, as it were, feelers, to 
ascertain whether it shall find sympathy. Fail- 
ing in this, it instinctively closes over its own 
wealth of sacred sorrows. It carefully draws the 
veil to conceal its yet bleeding wounds from the 
unsympathizing eye. And how sometimes will 
a sudden inquiry, or the abrupt mention of 
that dearest name, cause a tremor of emotion, 
which we shrink from exhibiting, yet which it 
taxes our strength to the utmost to control. Or 
if moved by some impulse, we ourselves utter 
that name, how often are we conscious of a 
strange pang, lest that which is so hallowed to 
us, should be lightly regarded by another ; — lest 
the halo around the image of our dear one, be 
dimmed by the gazing upon it of careless eyes. 
But in .the sanctuary of the soul are garnered 
up all those nameless feelings, — those touching 
associations that cluster around our departed one. 
Here is " the electric chain," sometimes so mys- 
teriously struck. Here are the delicate chords 
vibrating mournfully at the lightest touch. 
Here too is memory's deep urn, filled to the brim 
with the sacred ashes of the past. Yes ! in our 



302 THE BROKEN BUD. 



heart of hearts is enshrined an image, which no 
time — no circumstances can displace. And if, in 
the silence of midnight, oppressed and exhausted 
by our own cherished memories, we are fain to 

say, 

" Come with thine urn of dew, 
Sleep, gentle sleej), yet bring 
No voice, love's yearning to renew, 
No vision on thy wing," 

yet even in our slumbers is this image often 
hovering around us. 

" It is thought at work amidst buried hours ! 
It is Love, keeping vigil o'er perished flowers ! 
Oh ! we bear within us mysterious things, 
Of Memory and Anguish, unfathomed springs. 
Well might we look on our souls in fear, 
They find no fount of oblivion here ! 
They forget not the mantle of sleep beneath, 
How know we if under the wings of Death ?" 

Yes, in our brightest moments, — in our loneliest 
hours, this dear image is still with us. In the 
shadowy twilight, — 

u With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes a messenger divine, 



IMAGE IN THE HEART. 



303 



Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 

With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saintlike, 
Looking downward from the skies." 

If, for a time, we cease to feel the chastening 
influence of sorrow, and the heart becomes 
worldly, — how mournfully falls upon it the soft 
rebuke uttered by that spirit- voice ! If we fall 
into foolish levity, how does that placid face seem 
to rebuke us ! If we are betrayed into a harsh 
word, or an unkind look to some dear one, how 
do those deep eyes thrill us with their gentle re- 
proach ! Oh ! mysterious is the influence of this 
enshrined image. Why may we not regard it as 
more than doubtful evidence, that our heavenly- 
Father commissions our departed loved ones to 
minister unto us ? But however it may be, this 
haunting presence with its whisperings to good, — 
this gentle monitor with its tender reproaches 
for any wrong expressed or felt, — this sweet 
image in the soul with all its mournful in- 
fluences, is inexpressibly dear to us. It is — 



304 THE BROKEN BUD. 



" A refuge from distrust, 
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling, 
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust, 
With flowers divine." 

The love we cherish for the departed, is im- 
mortal as the soul from which it springs. 

" Thou takest not away, oh Death ! 
Thou strik'st and absence perish eth ; 

Indifference is no more ; 
The future brightens on our sight, 
For on the past is fallen a light, 
That tempts us to adore." 

With all the pensive hours which this " sor- 
row for the dead" occasions ;— with all the tender 
recollections, the bitter regrets, the agonizing 
remembrances it brings, — w e still cherish it. And 
if we have not the image of our wept for traced 
upon canvass, may we not console ourselves in 
dwelling on that image deeply drawn upon the 
heart, — an image with the ever-varying aspects 
of life, — and where too, the tones of joy and 
grief still breathe upon the ear, — an imago 
which no accident,— which nothing but the 
death of memory can efface ? There it lives on 



IMAGE IN THE HEART. 305 



through all change, prolonging the chastening of 
the Lord, and thus augmenting, to the trusting 
heart, the benefits of his afflicting hand. There it 
is enshrined, becoming dearer and more spiritual, 
until Death sets free the soul, which, purified 
through its protracted suffering, ascends to its 
heavenly home ; and there, re-united with the 
dear one, whose image it had cherished through 
this mortal life, they blend their voices in un- 
ceasing anthems of love. 

"Well, then, might one say to us, 

" I call thee blest ! though now the voice be fled, 
Which, to thy soul, brought dayspring with its tone, 
And o'er the gentle eyes though dust be spread, 
Eyes that ne'er looked on thine, but light was shed 

Far through thy breast. 

And though the music of thy life be broken, 
Or changed in every chord since she is gone, 
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, 
Oh thou ! who hast to death given up thine own, 

I call thee blest ! 

For in thy heart there is a holy spot, 

As mid the waste, an isle of fount and palm, 

20 



306 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Forever green ! the world's breath enters not, 
The passion-tempests may not break its calm ! 

'Tis thine, all thine ! 

Thither, in trust unbaffled, mayst thou turn, 
From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes, 
Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn, 
That, filled with waters of sweet memory lies 

In its own shrine. 

Thou hast thy home ! there is no power in change 
To reach that temple of the past ; no sway 
In all time brings of sudden, dark, or strange, 
To sweep the still transparent peace away 

From its hushed air ! 

And oh ! that beauteous image of the dead ! 
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest, 
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed 
Its high gifts fearlessly ! — I call thee blest, 

If only there! 

And art thou not still fondly, truly loved ? 
Thou art ! the love her spirit bore away, 
Was not for death ! a treasure but removed, 
A bright bird parted for a clearer day, — 

Thine still in heaven !" 

Mrs. Hemans. 



SmprntiEitutit nf ifflirtinn. 

" When some beloved voice that was to you 
Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly, 
And silence, against which you dare not cry, 
Aches round you like a strong disease, and new, — 
What hope ? what help ? What music will undo 
That silence to your sense ? Not friendship's sigh, — 
Not reason's subtle count ! Not melody 
Of viols, nor of pipes that Faunus blew, — 
Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales, 
Whose hearts leap upward through the cypress trees 
To the clear moon ; — nor yet the spheric laws 
Self-chanted ; — nor the angel's sweet All-Hails, 
Met in the smile of God. Nay, none of these. 

Speak thou availing Christ, and fill this pause. 
Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet 
From out the hallelujahs sweet and low, 
Lest I should fear, and fall, and miss thee so, 
Who are not missed by any that entreat. 
Speak to me as to Mary at thy feet. 
And if no precious gums my hands bestow, 
Let my tears drop like amber, while I go 



308 



THE BROKEN BUD. 



In reach of thy divinest voice, complete 
In humanest affection — thus in sooth, 
To lose the sense of losing ! As a child 
Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore, 
Is sung to in its stead by mother's voice, 
Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled, 
He sleeps the faster, that he wept before." 

E. B. Barrett. 

" An unskilful beholder may think it strange 
to see gold thrown into the fire, and left there 
for a time ; but he that puts it there, would be 
loth to lose it ; his purpose is to make some 
costly piece of work of it. Every believer gives 
himself to Christ, and He undertakes to present 
them blameless to the Father ; not one of them 
shall be lost, nor one drachm of their faith. 
That faith which is here in the furnace, shall be 
there made up into a crown of pure gold : it 
shall be found unto praise and honor and glory." 

What hopeless woe,— what delirium of grief 
must rage in the heart of the bereaved,* who 
never heard of a revelation ! The pagan mother 
lays her child in the grave, with no light to dis- 
pel the darkness that is settling in eternal night 
on her beclouded mind. If she lifts up her eye, 



she beholds only a revengeful deity, crushing her 
for his own pleasure. If she looks beyond the 
tomb, she sees but the blackness of darkness, 
into which, in despair, she perhaps miserably 
rushes, through her own suicidal act. Oh ! the 
blessedness of that Gospel, which has brought 
life and immortality to light ! and which, in our 
deepest night, shows us the Refiner in infinite 
kindness, casting us into his furnace, that we 
may be purified and thus become the partakers 
of his holiness. 

" When thou passest through the waters, I 
will be with thee ; and through the rivers, they 
shall not overflow thee ; when thou walkest 
through the fire, thou shalt not be burnt, neither 
shall the flames kindle upon thee. Fear thou 
not, for I am with thee ; be not. dismayed, for I 
am thy Grod : I will strengthen thee, yea, I will 
help thee, yea, I will uphold thee with the right 
hand of my righteousness." " For our light 
affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh 
for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight 
of glory." " No chastening for the present 
seemeth to be joyous, but grievous, neverthe- 
less afterwards, it yieldeth the peaceable fruits 



310 THE BROKEN BUD. 



of righteousness to them which are exercised 
thereby." 

It is a great affliction to lose a child, but it is 
tenfold worse to lose the benefit of the affliction. 
"When our heavenly Father in the wish to re- 
claim or sanctify, holds over us the rod of disci- 
pline, is it not waywardness indeed, not only to 
complain of the chastisement, but to indulge re- 
bellious thoughts of Him who inflicts it ? 

Grod sees that we are earth-bound in our af- 
fections, and therefore He smites us. But do 
we not with the sent-arrow hear a voice saying, 
" Arise, depart, for this is not your rest ?" And 
starting to our feet, we find that we had fallen 
asleep upon enchanted ground — that our roll is 
gone. And though the heart, in the first de- 
lirium of grief, upbraids Him who has so kindly 
aroused us, yet are we not thus led to retrace 
oar steps ? 

Sorrowful is this returning, and bitter are the 
tears shed in the valley of humiliation. But 
are we not constrained to acknowledge that un- 
less thus driven to the mercy-seat, we might 
have lingered by the way until denied its ac- 
cess ? Then while the stricken heart is quiver- 



IMPROVEMENT OF AFFLICTION. 311 

ing at the stroke of the Chastener, we can still 
kiss the rod that afflicts. And we can feel too, 
that there are alleviations in our affliction, which 
we did not at first perceive. We can bless our 
Father for the solace of human sympathy. And 
we can bless him more, that when no arm of 
flesh can sustain, then the everlasting arms are 
underneath us. Let us but bring our wills into 
sweet submission to the will of our Father, and 
his grace will be found sufficient for us. Then 
are our fainting souls refreshed with the Com- 
forter's sweetest cordials. 

What sacrifice can we lay on (rod's altar so 
pleasing to him, as the sacrifice of our own 
wills ? What so acceptable an offering can we 
bring before him, as the very thing which He 
asks of us ? 

" 4 What shall I render thee, Father supreme, 
For thy rich gifts, and this the best of all V 
Said the young mother as she fondly watched 
Her sleeping babe. There was an answering voice 
That night in dreams : — 

' Thou hast a tender flower 
Upon thy breast, — fed with the dews of love : 
Send me that flower. Such flowers there are in heaven." 



312 THE BROKEN BUD. 

But there was silence. Yea, a hush so deep, 
Breathless and terror-stricken, that the lip 
Blanched in its trance. 

' Thou hast a little harp, — 
How sweetly would it swell the angels' hymn ! 
Yield me that harp.' 

There rose a shuddering sob, 
As if the bosom, by some hidden sword, 
Was cleft in twain. 

Morn came — a blight had found 
The crimson -velvet of the unfolding bud. 
The harp-strings rang a thrilling strain, and broke, — 
And that young mother lay upon the earth 
In l silent' agony. Again the voice 
That stirred her vision : 

' He who asked of thee, 
Love th a cheerful giver.' So she raised 
Her gushing eyes, and, ere the tear-drops dried 
Upon its fringes, smiled — and that meek smile, 
Like Abraham's faith, was counted righteousness." 

" We see in a jeweller's shop," says Leighton, 
" that as there are pearls, and diamonds, and 
other precious stones, so there are files, cutting 
instruments, and many sharp tools for their pol- 
ishing ; and while they are in the workhouse, 
they are continual neighbors to them, and often 



IMPROVEMENT OF AFFLICTION. 313 

come under them. The church is Grod's jewelry, 
his work-house, where his jewels are a polishing 
for his palace and his house ; and those he es- 
pecially esteems, and means to make most re- 
splendent, he hath oftenest his tools upon." 

Have we not reason, then, to " glory in tribula- 
tion ?" Yes ; the way of the cross is the way to 
the crown, — the way which all the saints have 
trod. " These are they which came out of great 
tribulation, and have washed their robes, and 
made them white in the blood of the Lamb." 
In this rugged path we discern the footsteps of 
Jesus of Nazareth. And shall we complain, 
dear Saviour, that 

" The thorns which pierced thy bleeding brow, 
"Wound as we pass, our pilgrim-feet P ' 

Let us in our light afflictions cherish thy spirit, 
thou matchless Sufferer, — let us, like thyself, be 
" made perfect through suffering," remembering 
that "if we suffer, we shall also reign" with 
thee. 

" Through night to light ! And though to mortal eyes, 
Creation's face a pall of horror wear 



314 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Good cheer ! good cheer ! the gloom of midnight flies, 
Then shall a sunrise follow, mild and fair. 

Through cross to crown ! — And though thy spirit's life 
Trials untold assail with giant strength, 

Good cheer ! good cheer ! soon ends the bitter strife, 
And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at length. 

Through woe to joy ! — And though at noon thou weep, 
And though the midnight find thee weeping still, 

Good cheer ! good cheer ! the Shepherd loves his sheep, — 
Resign thee to the watchful Father's will. 

Through death to life ! And through this vale of tears, 
And through this thistle-field of life ascend, 

To the great supper in that world, whose years 
Of bliss unfading, cloudless, know no end." 

KoSEGARTEN. 



€$i Bintjin Wvn. 



" A Shepherd long had sought in vain, 

To call a wandering sheep ; 
He strove to make her pathway plain, 

Through dangers thick and deep : 
At last, the gentle Shepherd took 

Her little lamb from view, 
The mother turned with anguished look, 

She turned and followed too." 



" Let not thy strong, sustaining arm recede ; 

Uphold me, or I sink beneath the tide ! 
Lead me to thank thee that from dreams I woke, 

"Which led my straying soul so far from thee ; 
Lead me to meekly bow before thy stroke, 

And humbly bless thee for my misery." 

Bitter as are our partings at the gate of 
death, yet unspeakably more bitter must they be 
when we have no hope of reunion beyond the 
grave ! Pierced and bleeding as is the heart, 
stricken by an arrow from the Almighty's quiver, 
how can it endure its wound, except the balm of 
Grilead be applied ? And if we commiserate the 
benighted pagan mother, who, at the grave of her 



316 THE BROKEN BUD. 



child, sees a cloud of impenetrable gloom settling 
there, — is not the unbelieving mother in a Chris- 
tian land, equally to be commiserated ? She 
closes her eye to the light which irradiates the 
dark way, and turning from the Grod of consola- 
tion, she gazes into the grave with hopeless 
misery. She resists the will of Grod, and thus 
finds unmingled bitterness in her cup. The 
moment however that her heart says, though 
but in the faintest whisperings of a trembling 
faith, " Thy will be done, 5 ' that moment she 
begins to perceive the mercies, with which her 
heavenly Father has sweetened the bitter draught. 
And when thus humbled and subdued, that 
Father puts his strong arm around her and leads 
her into the " chamber of Peace," gently whis- 
pering, " Daughter, be of good cheer; thy sins 
are forgiven thee." " What I do, thou knowest 
not now, but thou shalt know hereafter." 

But not only is submission necessary in order 
to secure Almighty support in our hour of need ; 
but also, that we may receive the spiritual 
benefits designed for us in affliction. This filial 
temper — more potent than the far-famed stone 
of the Alchymist, transmutes what we deemed a 



THE MOTHER WON. 317 

curse into a blessing. It makes the trial of our 
faith more precious than gold. 

And surely there is every reason why the 
unchristian mother, when standing over the 
grave of her child, should be dumb from convic- 
tion, if not in submission. If she looks at her 
life as a practical rejection of the Saviour, — as 
bearing no fruit unto Grod, — she can but ac- 
knowledge that she deserves to be rebuked. Nor 
upon reflection, can she fail to perceive God's 
mercy to her child, which, in removing from this 
world of sin and sorrow, He has also removed 
from the influence of a mother, by whose example 
it might have been led astray. And she will also 
perceive his mercy to herself, in that, by making 
her earthly home desolate, He is inviting her to 
seek a better home above, — to which home is add- 
ed the dear attraction of her lost one's presence. 

Oh ! there is a voice from the silent lips of a 
departed child which is well nigh irresistible. 
Earnestly it whispers to the mother of her idola- 
trous love, now justly rebuked. Entreatingly it 
warns her not again to strive after an earthly 
Paradise. Winningly it invites her to its own 
sweet home in the mansions of the blest. 



318 THE BROKEN BUD. 

Seek not then, bereaved mother, to rivet anew 
the bands which (rod has broken. Drop not such 
tears of bitterness into the grave of your loved 
one, when its angel-spirit is wooing you from the 
skies. Earth's joys have faded, but more endur- 
ing joys attract thee. Earth's fairest scenes are 
passing away, but brighter scenes are opening 
before thee. The hand of Grod has cut asunder 
the bonds that bound you here, but the same 
hand, by sweeter bonds, is drawing you there. 
The heart of the Redeemer is wooing you through 
the blessedness of your child. Improve this 
chastening of the Lord, and He will not only be 
with you in the deep waters, but He will speak 
comfortably to you all through the wilderness. 
And though your child will never return to you, 
yet be of good cheer, it is 

" A treasure but removed, 
A bright bird parted for a clearer day, 
Thine still in heaven." 

And w T hen this mortal life is ended, and once 
again you fold that child to your yearning bosom, 
it will be to unite with her eternally in the songs 
of the redeemed. 



THE MOTHER WON. 319 

But if the rod of discipline cannot drive you to 
Christ, — if all these attractions do not win you to 
him, then your afflictions will but serve to harden 
your heart, — to augment your condemnation, — to 
aggravate your misery. 

Stricken mother ! Is there no balm in Grilead ? 
Is there no Physician there ? In this thy night 
of sorrow, go to the sacred garden, ascend the 
hallowed mount, and learn what Jesus suffered. 
And learning this, thou canst but learn thy own 
deep sinfulness. Then shalt thou " behold the 
Lamb of Grod, whose blood cleanseth from all 
sin." And if thou canst look back upon affliction 
as having led thee to the cross, and upon the cross 
as now leading thee to thy crown, well mayst 
thou say, 

" Amid my list of blessings infinite, 
Stands this the foremost, that my heart has bled." 

" For what shall I praise thee, my God and my King, 
For what blessings the tribute of gratitude bring ? 
Shall I praise thee for pleasure, for health, and for ease ; 
For the spring of delight, and the sunshine of peace ? 

For these I will praise Thee, — but if only for this, 
I should leave half-untold the donation of bliss ; 



320 THE BROKEN BUD. 

I thank thee for sickness, for sorrow, for care, 

For the thorns I have gathered, the anguish I bear. 

The flowers were most sweet, but their fragrance is flown, 
They yielded no fruit, they are withered and gone ; 
The thorn it was poignant, but precious to me, 
'Twas the message of mercy, it led me to Thee." 

Caroline Fry. 



#mf Sijtag ^*at 

Now my heart's deep bell is tolling, — 
Slowly, — slowly, — slowly knotting ; — 
And in silence stands the bier, 
Waiting for Grief's Dying Year. 

While sad Memory is folding 
Up her scroll, she still is holding 
Pictures drawn in sorrow's night, 
Close before my aching sight. 

Though they pass in quick succession, 
Yet they trace a deep impression, — 
By some wondrous magic art, 
Print their copy on my heart ; — 

There to dwell and strangely sadden - 

Sometimes even almost madden, — 
21 



322 THE BROKEN BUD. 



Painting scenes before my eye, 
Fraught with tears and agony. 

Ah ! my child ! I see thee lying, — 
Sinking, — sinking, — slowly dying ; — 
Still not loosed thy silver thread, — 
Dying, — dying, — never dead. 

Hush ! — oh, hush this fearful sobbing ! 
Cease ! — oh, cease, this loud heart-throbbing ;■ 
Hangs a picture by its side, 
Telling that my darling died ; — 

Died long since, yet tears are gushing ; 
Grief's full tide is wildly rushing, 
While its waters o'er my soul, 
In tumultuous torrent roll. 

The old wound is freshly bleeding, 
As the year is slow receding. 
Every minute adds some line, 
Filling out griefs full design. 



GRIEF'S DYING YEAR. 323 

Now is every stroke repeated, — 
Now the pictures are completed ; — 
Hang they all on Memory's wall, 
Curtained by the sable pall. 

And although my heart they're wringing, — 
Yet to them my heart is clinging, 
For they bring me many a token 
Of my bud so early broken. 

Now my heart's deep bell is tolling, — 
Slowly, — slowly, — slowly knolling ; — 
Passes on time's noiseless bier, 
Bearing the departed Year, — 

With its weeping, burning record, 
Darkly shaded, deeply chequered, 
All its sorrows soon to cast 
'Mid the buried of the past. 

But the pictures time will leave me ; — 
Nothing can of these bereave me, 



324 THE BROKEN BUD. 

Till that I and Memory part, — 
Till Death's hand is on my heart. 

And when glows the golden dawning 
Of the bright, celestial morning, — 
Ends the long, funereal night 
In a day of cloudless light, — 

Then, with rapture all unspoken, 
I shall see my bud, once broken, 
Blooming 'neath serenest skies, 
'Mid sweet flowers of Paradise. 

When I there in bliss behold her, — 
To my yearning heart enfold her, — 
Shall I not have golden pay 
For this weeping, mortal day J 

Blessed Saviour ! boundless praises 
Unto thee my full heart raises : — 
Hope, — that points amid our tears 
Through the misty march of years, — 



GRIEF'S DYING YEAR. 325 

Hope, — that o'er the grave is gleaming, 
With a flood of glory beaming, — 
Hope, — the beacon-star of earth, 
In thy Passion had its birth. 

Bear me on then, restless ocean, 
Bear me with thy billowy motion, 
To that Eden-shore so blest, 
Where these longings shall find rest. 



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